


Little Spaces

by dracoladon, lazywonderland



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Behaviour from Lucius, Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Bickering, D/s elements, Healer Draco Malfoy, M/M, Minor Drug Use, Rimming, Roleplay, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27595478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoladon/pseuds/dracoladon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazywonderland/pseuds/lazywonderland
Summary: Draco's back from France and working on the spell damage ward at St Mungo's with Hermione, who invites him over for dinner. Without telling Harry.This is a roleplay, which means Harry is written by one author (lazywonderland) and Draco by another (dracoladon).
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Charlie Weasley
Comments: 201
Kudos: 275





	1. The Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends! we both needed a lil boost to our muse and collaborative writing is an absolute gem, so here is the first chapter of our endeavor. we'll update as we write!

“I think the two of you should know,” says Hermione, returning from upstairs where she’d put Rose down, “that I invited Draco over for dinner and he'll be here any minute.” 

Harry blinks at her, then looks to his left and sees Ron doing the same. Their chess pieces begin shouting at them, but neither notice.

“You what?” he says. 

“Invited Draco over for dinner,” she repeats, sternly this time, as if they’d already said something that annoyed her. “We’re working together now, as I’ve already told you, and he’s been very pleasant and I told him it would be nice to catch up and go over some things during dinner. You two, and _especially_ you,” she says, pointing accusingly at Harry, who throws up his hands in bewilderment, “had better be nice to him.” 

“You’re mental,” says Ron. Then he stands up and points at _her_ , which looks ridiculous between the two of them and would have sent Harry into a fit of laughter had he been in the mood for laughing. “You’re _mental_ , Hermione! Inviting Draco Malfoy into _our_ home!” 

“Seriously, Hermione, you couldn’t’ve given us slightly more notice —?” 

A soft knock on the door interrupts him and both Harry and Ron goggle at it while Hermione glares at them. 

“Shove it, the both of you,” she says fiercely. “Good behaviour.” She goes to the door, puts on a charming little smile, and positively beams when she opens it on Draco sodding Malfoy. 

“Draco!” she chirps. “I’m so glad you came, come on in.”

*

Granger is not Draco’s friend. The reasoning for this is three fold.

Number one: Granger is nice. In an earnest, unflinching, I’m-going-to-be-pleasant-to-you-whether-you-like-it-or-not kind of way, and Draco is not friends with nice people. He’s friends with Pansy, who calls him ‘you _whore’_ more often than his own name, and likes to use the expensive(!!) hide rugs in his living room to break in her new heels. He’s friends with Blaise, who always slinks away from the bar before he’s paid his tab, and brings hookups back to Draco's apartment when he’s not there (and sometimes when he is, too, but Draco’s tried very hard to erase those occasions from his memory). 

Number two: Granger is simply far too intelligent. Draco, in his adolescence, came to realise that there was a distinct variation between what he could get away with in Greg and Vince’s company, and what he could get away with in Pansy’s (which was precisely nothing). And now Vince is gone, and Greg doesn’t want to see any of them anymore, and Draco has no friends with whom his shit will be put up. If he wanted any more (which he does not) he wouldn't be recruiting another _shrew_ to call him out on every single thing he tries to pull. So there. 

And number three: Granger’s boyfriend is the Weasel, and her best friend is Harry Potter. And Draco has known for twelve years, give or take, that any friend of Harry Potter’s is not a friend of his. 

So no. Granger is not Draco’s friend. But that doesn’t stop her from doing ridiculous things like inviting him to dinner and hugging him when he arrives. It also doesn’t stop Draco from doing ridiculous things like accepting the invitation, and burying his face in her absurd hair. 

“I brought tapenade,” Draco says when Granger releases him, glancing down at the Stasis charmed dish. “I’m not sure why.”

*

It suddenly makes so much sense why Hermione’s been twitchy all evening, which actually, frankly, only makes Harry more irritated. She’s had hours to warn him, give him a chance to get the hell out and leave Ron to suffer by himself. He supposes Hermione had been worried Ron would bolt too, and it makes sense logically, but he still doesn’t understand why the fuck she bothered inviting Malfoy to dinner if she doesn’t want to do it herself. 

“A minute’s warning,” says Ron under his breath, “ _a minute_. She knew we’d fuck off if she gave us any longer.” 

Harry doesn’t have time to agree (scathingly) before Hermione’s opening the door and Malfoy’s walking inside holding something, probably food, but Harry’s too busy glaring at his immediately-infuriating, unnaturally symmetrical, pointy git face. 

“You brought _what_?” Ron demands as Malfoy and Hermione — Harry feels sick, actually sick — hug. 

“Tapenade, Ronald,” Hermione repeats, flashing him a dangerous look over her shoulder. “It’s French.” Harry’s still glaring at Malfoy: he should know his audacity, that Harry absolutely does not approve of this, would in fact approve of the giant _squid_ as a dinner guest over Malfoy, and it’s absolutely essential Malfoy not come any farther into this flat without being aware of how completely offended Harry feels, down to his bones, about these circumstances. “Harry,” says Hermione pointedly, “can you please take the food so Draco can get his coat off?” 

Harry shoots her a scathing look but does it. He meets Malfoy’s grey eyes and practically rips the food out of his hands. 

“So glad you’re joining us, Malfoy,” he says sarcastically, “what would we have done without your pretentious French food? Perished under the weight of our lack of culture, surely. Thank god you’re here to save us.

*

If Granger had been Draco’s friend before (which, just to reiterate, she was not), she definitely wouldn’t be anymore. 

Draco doesn't like to be surprised. (In fact, last year, when he walked into his flat to see the lights off and the awkward silhouettes of Slytherins trying their hardest to forget a decade or two of posture training and fold themselves into a crouch behind his low-slung coffee table, he’d simply set down his bags and walked back out again. It had taken much coercion from Pansy (“ _so many presents, darling, expensive ones_ ”) to get him to come back at all.) Much less does Draco like to be surprised with Harry Potter. 

Draco says, “It’s no trouble, Potter.” He shrugs off his coat and tosses it onto Potter’s outstretched forearms. “I find enriching the lives of the culturally inept to be incredibly rewarding. Mind the wool, will you? It’s delicate.”

*

What Harry would _like_ to do is drop the ridiculous French food (it looks exactly like the pile of cat vomit he'd found on his pillow yesterday) to spite the both of them, revel in the satisfaction of watching it splatter across the hardwood floor, and then punch Malfoy in his smug cunting face. It's the coat on his arm that does it, transporting him back to fifteen when he'd been prone to becoming apoplectic with rage over very small things, which, to be fair, hadn't felt small, and nor does this. But he's _not_ fifteen; he's in fact twenty-three with a flat and a career and a revolving-door of relationships, and if he allows Malfoy to send him reeling back into adolescence with a single (outrageous) gesture then his façade of adulthood will completely unravel. And he can't have that. 

Behind him, he hears Ron muttering, in a mocking, childish voice: " _Enriching the lives of the culturally inept_ ..." 

"Can't be any more delicate than your relationship with reality," Harry retorts, but another look from Hermione stays his hand before he can sling the coat back at Malfoy. While he goes to hang it up he hears Hermione showing Malfoy into the dining room, where she'd spent the last hour putting together a large spread and humming too loudly, which in retrospect Harry thinks he should have found suspicious considering they rarely eat in there even when he has dinner with them. 

"I was just saying it's a good thing Malfoy brought the tampenade," Ron says, pronouncing it _tamp-uh-nade_ , as soon as Harry walks in and sets the bowl down, and he gestures sardonically to the abundance of dishes, "since Hermione barely made any food." 

"Oh, shut up, Ron," Hermione says. She whacks him on the back of the head with her wand, eliciting an exaggerated shout of pain. "And it's tapenade."

It's then that Harry realises Hermione has decided he deserves to suffer for whatever reason, because she's taking her place next to Ron and the other chair is across the table, next to Malfoy. He grits his teeth and takes it, glaring at her.

*

 _I don’t exactly want to sit next you either, Potter_ , Draco wants to say. He doesn’t, because he’s got this _refined_ kind of asshole act going that’s really working for him, but whatever. He’s sure his smirk says it well enough. 

Besides, he’s not sure that would be completely honest of him. If Draco’s a refined-kind-of-asshole, Potter’s an extremely crude one. He wears his emotions without discretion — it’s part of what’s always made him so fun to fuck around with. Draco could practically see Potter debating whether or not to throw his coat back in his face (he’s glad he didn’t. The wool really is very delicate). Anyway. 

Potter, with a deep red flannel rolled up to the elbow and sufficiently less scrawny than the last time Draco saw him, looking like he’s one well placed barb away from dishing out a good-and-proper thumping is. Satisfying. Kind of. Perhaps, Draco might even venture to call it arousing, was Potter not the worst. _An idiot_ , and the worst. 

The Weasel, who is eyeing the most recent addition to Granger’s (admittedly impressive) spread, says, “What is tepenade, even?” 

“It’s an olive dip,” says Granger. 

“You eat it with crostini,” Draco adds, because he knows it’ll make Potter and Weasley roll their eyes. 

He has, of course, nailed it. The Weasel coughs over a murmured “wanker” and Granger delivers him a swift whack to the back of the head with a salad spoon. Draco is already having more fun than he thought he would. It helps that he can hear the sound of Potter digging his nails into the arm of his chair beside him.

*

Ron receives yet another blow to the head, which usually would have been in Harry’s opinion the height of comedy, but right now only feels like an attack on his team. He and Ron being one team, Hermione and Malfoy the other. It’s come to that, especially when Malfoy says _crostini._ Some part of him thinks of getting up and leaving, because _why_ would he stay? He’s twenty-fucking-three and it shouldn’t feel like defeat, it should feel like being a normal human who takes themselves out of infuriating situations they know might make them lose their temper.

But it does feel like defeat, so he stays. Bitterly. Defiantly. Keeping his elbow tucked in so he doesn’t even accidentally come within five inches of touching Malfoy’s pointy elbow.

“You know, Draco just spent the last couple years in France,” says Hermione as she hovers Mrs Weasley-amounts of food onto all their plates, which Harry privately thinks is a habit she’s picked up since dating Ron. And living with him. And becoming his wife. 

“Wow,” Ron drones, stabbing his fork into a piece of chicken and sending the tapenade a dirty look. “France, Harry, did you hear that? Must be where he learned to make the tampanod.”

“It’s going to be very helpful in this new case study,” Hermione snipes at him, and then puts on a smile when she looks at Malfoy. Harry raises his eyebrows at Ron, who mimes gagging in full view of both of them. “You were telling me about your work with that man in Paris who tried to perform a Doubling Charm on his liver — I’m dying to read about it, I wish they would hurry up and publish the article.”

“Thrilling,” Harry mutters. He pushes his sleeves, which have started sagging, back up to the elbow and grabs his beer. “Are we sure Malfoy didn’t encourage him to do it? So he could sell the extra liver on some black market? Sounds like classic Draco to me.”

*

Not that Draco gives the most microscopic fuck imaginable what Potter thinks of him, but ouch, a bit. He’s spent the last few years of his life trying embarrassingly hard to secure a reputation as someone who. You know. Doesn’t duplicate people’s livers for illicit dealings. 

He snorts. When he’s offended, it usually comes out as derision. “Unfortunately livers don’t go for a jot of what they used to, or I would have brought caviar.” 

“But then we wouldn’t have gotten to try your lovely tampnad,” Weasley says earnestly, and Granger punishes him by dumping a spoonful of it on his plate. 

“What was it you told me about the research grant?” she says. “They decided the concept had some merit, didn’t they?” 

“Mm,” Draco says. “It’s delicate spell work, so naturally it didn’t work when the poor sod tried to perform it on himself. But a few of my colleagues back at Saint Eloi think it could be a possibility. They’d need to develop a more complex variation on a Stasis and a Doubling before they could even begin tests, obviously.” 

Spat around a mouthful of tapenade (interesting), “ _Obviously_.” 

“ _Ron_.”

*

He’s not exactly an expert or anything on reading Malfoy’s facial expressions (he remembers from Hogwarts that it was usually some variation on disdain anyway), but he fancies he sees something, some small intimation of hurt or offense or ... something. It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care if he’s hurt Malfoy’s (highly ironically) delicate feelings. But it’s sort of interesting, in a fuck-Malfoy-and-his-delicate-feelings kind of way. 

The tapenade is unfortunately very good, something Ron seems to have realised based on how much of it he’s eaten. He keeps shooting glares at Malfoy, as if he resents enjoying it, and Harry joins him in tossing casual insults Malfoy’s way while he and Hermione descend deep into their academic discussion. Which is actually sort of interesting, only Harry would rather die than admit that. 

“Harry,” says Hermione when they’ve made a good dent in the food, acknowledging him for the first time in ten minutes and interrupting his and Ron’s cross-discussion about Quidditch. Her voice sounds a little loose from the wine. “Remember that raid you did last year, the married couple who were selling fake organs?” 

Harry snorts and Ron laughs out loud, clearly remembering it as well. “Yeah,” he says, “they were Transfiguring garden gnomes. Completely twisted, that woman. The husband was the one who tipped us off.” He turns to Malfoy (and feels a twinge of irritation when he spots the slight flush on his cheeks from the wine, which is ... not unattractive, or whatever) and says, “I think you’d’ve really liked her, Malfoy, she was supremely evil and all posh and annoying like you. Blond too.” He goes so far as clinking his (second) beer against Malfoy’s wine glass. “Maybe she’s a long lost Malfoy cousin.”

*

“Mmph,” Weasley says, reaching for a (fifth? sixth?) spoonful of tapenade (which he most recently called tapenyoke, and Potter almost choked on his beer) “if she had been a Malfoy cousin, Malfoy would be married to her by now.” 

Well that rankles. The least Wealsey could do is get his facts straight — it’s the _Blacks_ that built a sovereignty of inbreds. The Malfoys’ only sins are that of your run of the mill supremacist bigots, thanks. 

“Perhaps,” Draco says, over a cool sip of his wine. “Although her dowry was most unimpressive.” 

“Did you get a look in at the internal Splinching from last Friday, Draco? That nurse — you know, the young one with the _shoes_ — said it’s the first one they’ve ever had at St Mungo’s,” Granger says, in another gallant attempt to redirect the conversation into less slanderous territory. 

“‘Mione, d’reckon you could not talk about internal Splinchings while we’re eating?” 

Draco nods. “You wouldn’t want to put Weasley off his tapenade.” 

“I’ll put you off your tipnid in a minute." 

“As always your wit thrills and beguiles me.” Draco feels the familiar, pleasurable sensation of malice enveloping his tongue, sharpening all his edges. “Is it that word of the day toilet paper Granger’s put in the bathroom?” 

“Hey Malfoy. Is the talking-like-ponce a pureblood thing, or is that just. You know. Cause you’re a complete prick.” Weasley holds out his hand and Potter smacks it enthusiastically, the two of them snickering like Ron had said anything remotely clever. Draco talks like an aristocrat because he is one. 

Granger, having ostensibly given up on trying to get the three of them to play nicely, sets her fork down with a great thunk and rises from her chair. “Ronald. Could you please assist me in the kitchen?” 

Well. That gets the freckly berk to stop laughing alright.

“I think that’ll be ten points from Gryffindor,” Draco muses. He probably could’ve come up with something more cutting, but as Weasley leaves the room with a covert “bite me, ferret face”, he’s become distinctly aware that he’s now alone with Potter. 

Potter, whose cheekbones do look rather chiseled when he frowns like that, and whose hands flex with veins when he grips his fork tight enough to warp the silver (Draco assumes it’s a proxy for his neck). 

He bites his bottom lip, and hopes it’s stained a bit from the wine he’s been nursing all night. He let Pansy paint his lips with that red stuff she loves so much, once, and it made them look excessively fuckable (bloke-in-the-club-toilets’ words, not his). Not that Potter would ever be oh-so-blessed as to have Draco on his knees, but Draco thinks he should probably let him know what he’s missing. As a courtesy. 

See, Potter? Slytherins can be chivalrous too.

*

The fork is a proxy for Malfoy's neck, which he would like to be squeezing. Preferably until his eyeballs swell cartoonishly and then pop. It would be incredibly cathartic to do that, and not just because he's proper fucking annoying. Also because the longer he's forced to look at him the more Harry is forced to acknowledge a disturbing ... attractiveness about him. The flushed cheeks and the long, slim throat and especially the way Hermione's merlot (which he and Ron refuse to drink, seeing as it's fucking rancid) has stained his lips a bit red. 

Annoyed with Hermione all over again for letting this happen, and now at Ron for misbehaving enough that she's decided to take him away for a patented Hermione Lecture, Harry looks deliberately away from Malfoy and grabs for his beer, which he finds empty. 

"We had to track this bloke down last year," he says, wandlessly _Accio_ -ing another beer from the kitchen and popping the cap off, "he invented this completely insane spell that made anyone who came within a few yards of the cursed object start fighting, pretty violently usually." He takes a sip of his beer and then points it at Malfoy, straight-faced. "You're like the human embodiment. Causing strife and chaos wherever you go. They don’t usually fight like this anymore." 

His eyes drop to Malfoy's throat, completely unconscious, but he becomes aware he's done it after the fact and looks away again, irritated and too warm. From the beer. He's had, like, three of them.

*

Well. Well! If that isn’t the most hypocritical thing Draco’s ever fucking heard. 

“Spent seven years of my young life learning from the best. Ta, Harry Potter,” he says, and clinks his wine glass against Potter’s beer with more force than strictly necessary, and watches as some of the frothy amber liquid sloshes over the lip and in rivulets down his hand.

*

Maybe it's because he's tipsy. Maybe it's because he hasn't seen Malfoy in ... two years? Three? And he's remembered suddenly how much his mere presence makes Harry feel agitated on a molecular level. Maybe it's the way Malfoy says _Harry Potter_ , reminding him of everything he hates about dealing with his public image. Or maybe it's a combination of all that plus the fact that he keeps having to shift in his chair and subtly adjust his cock, which is slowly getting hard under his jeans. 

Whatever the reason, he's less successful at containing his annoyance than he'd have liked. 

"I stopped causing strife and chaos five years ago, dickhead," he says, not without some bite behind it. He's about to rip into Malfoy further but Ron and Hermione come back, and he knows Hermione can tell by the looks on their faces that they've been fighting because she frowns at him sternly. He snatches at a napkin and wipes his hand off, resisting tossing it at Malfoy's head. 

The remainder of the meal is tense, only Harry thinks that might just be between himself and Malfoy. Ron's holding back on the mocking front and Malfoy and Hermione have slipped back into their easy repartee but he can feel Malfoy ignoring him in an active way, and Harry's still just hard enough to be uncomfortable and can't stop sneaking glances at his profile. 

They're only halfway through dessert when Rose starts crying from upstairs. Ron and Hermione argue for only a second over who will go check on her ("I'll do it!" Ron insists while Hermione says, "It's fine, Ron, I don't mind!" and they finally grin with pink cheeks and decide to do it together). And then they're gone, and Harry starts (angrily) hovering some of the plates into the kitchen without looking at Malfoy.

*

Draco isn’t the same spoilt, petulant child he once was. Really. He (usually) doesn’t cry when he doesn’t get what he wants. He (usually) refrains from stomping his foot when he’s particularly annoyed. He can (most of the time) keep his voice at an even temper, avoid that pettish whine that served him so well between the ages of five and fifteen. 

And yet, he finds himself lounging back into his chair while Potter clears the table.

“Do be a lamb and fetch me a refill,” Draco says, in the kind of drawl that would put even his father to shame, holding his wine glass out with lazy fingers. “While you’re up.”

*

Harry has to pause for a moment and restrain himself from doing something he shouldn't, like causing Malfoy's wine glass to explode in his hand for instance, since that would probably end with glass in his eye. Some part of him would also be okay with hauling him out of his chair, pinning him against the wall, and tasting his stupid wine-stained lips. 

He doesn't do that either. 

"Oh, yeah, sure," says Harry, _too_ acquiescent. While his magic leads the plates to the kitchen he grabs Malfoy's wine glass from right out of his hand, hyper-aware of their fingers sliding together for less than a second. He brings it into the kitchen with him and even finds the new bottle of wine, but he doesn't fill it and he certainly doesn't send it back. He starts magicking the dishes into the sink instead, and wonders how long it'll take Malfoy to realise he's not coming back with his drink.

*

Hmph. If this is Gryffindor hospitality, then. Well. Draco is much too distracted to think of a snippy conclusion, at the present moment. It’s shit, is the gist. 

“I asked you to pour me a glass of wine, Potter, not ferment the grapes,” he says, getting up and draping himself against the kitchen doorway. Legs crossed, hip out so a little midriff shows at the hem of his shirt. Draco knows what he’s doing, even if he doesn’t know why.

*

Harry looks behind him when he hears Malfoy's familiar drawl and immediately regrets it, because the first thing his eyes are drawn to is the inch or two of skin uncovered at his hip. It's very pale and looks very soft, which isn't fair since Malfoy's a prickly berk and deserves horrible skin. And a mouth that's less inviting, for that matter. Harry clenches his jaw as the soapy water starts filling the sink. 

"You're a piece of fucking work, Malfoy," says Harry, trying for casual and falling short. He just sounds flustered and irritated and, frankly, obvious, only he hopes that's just to himself. He decides it's because he hasn't slept with anyone in three months and his brain is confusing his elevated emotions (anger, hatred, contempt, all sorts of negative ones) for arousal. An easy mistake. "Here's an idea: move your entitled little pureblood arse and pour it yourself."

*

Draco says, “My little pureblood arse is disinclined towards such plebeian duties.”

*

Harry clenches his jaw again. Turns to the sink, where he starts washing dishes by hand. “Then I guess you’re not getting any wine, are you? Tragic.”

*

Draco doesn’t really want any more wine. What he wants is to make Potter do that jaw-clenchy thing some more, so he throws up his arms and makes a whiny noise from the back of his throat that Blaise always tells him sounds like a dying Crup. 

“Fine, Potter. You know it’s an act of great cruelty, to deny a man his wine? Not very Gryffindor of you.” 

Draco knows the wine is by the sink. He can see it. Doesn’t stop him from bending over to search through the lower cabinets, and making enough noise that Potter has to look down at him.

*

It’s hard, but Harry ignores the whine. He could have told Malfoy he sounds like a child throwing a tantrum but chooses the higher ground, simply because he’s just not in the fucking mood. Not when he’s still on the uncomfortable side of semi-hard. 

However, when he hears an absolute ruckus start behind him he has no choice but to look, his curiosity too great. What he finds is Malfoy bent at the waist, trousers tight against his arse (which is as unjustly perfect as his skin), digging through a cabinet that no rational person would ever believe contained wine, especially when there’s a bottle sitting on the counter. 

He doesn’t really believe Malfoy’s an idiot, so his conclusion is that he’s doing this just to be a prat. 

“How old are you?” Harry snaps, dropping the dish he’s holding in the sink. It clatters alarmingly against the others but doesn’t break. “The wine is right fucking there, do you see it?” He grabs it himself and shakes it in Malfoy’s face. “Here! You absolute fucking brat! Shall I feed it to you as well? Do you need help with that, Malfoy? It’s just not all of us grew up with house-elves wiping our arses for us.”

*

Hm. How very interesting. _How very very interesting_. 

“Potter,” Draco says, pushing the bottle of wine away from his face and deciding (most graciously) to ignore the hideous inaccuracies Potter’s just slandered him with. “You’re hard.”

*

All Harry can really do for a few moments is blink. Then he feels blood rush to his face (which he would have hoped might take blood away from other parts of his body where it doesn’t belong at the moment, but of course he’s a highly fucked up individual so maybe it shouldn’t surprise him, really, that his cock is actually harder now that Malfoy’s called him out), and he decides that dying right at this exact moment would definitely be preferable to living. 

Finally, forcing himself to speak even though he’s brick red and can’t remember the last time he felt this humiliated, he says, “ _And_? Quit looking and worry about the wine you’ve just been whingeing about endlessly.”

*

Draco smiles. Leans back against the counter. He’s not quite sure when he changed tracks from trying to entice Potter into an apoplectic fit to... whatever this is. But he keeps going, for the reason he always has done. Because he wants to. 

“Don’t be a bore now, Potter. Things are finally getting interesting.”

*

It’s like the old Malfoy went to France and a new one came back, one that he absolutely cannot get a reading on. Although to be fair, he supposes, maybe he never really had a reading on Malfoy in the first place. He tries to remember the last time he was alone with him and thinks, with a jolt, that it was sixth year in that bathroom. 

He swallows noisily, eyes back on Malfoy’s mouth with its too-pink lips, and the long, slender throat below it. He doesn’t understand what Malfoy’s doing, why he’s not run out of here in a strop yelling about perverted Gryffindor heroes and their ill-timed erections. 

He _is_ an arrogant twat, so there’s that. Harry decides to tell him. 

“You’re an arrogant twat,” he says, and he crowds into Malfoy’s space, looming over him where he’s pressed against the counter. “Maybe it’s got nothing to do with you. Did you consider that one, Malfoy?”

*

Of course not. 

“Of course,” Draco says. He waves a lazy hand. “But what with the way you’ve been staring at me, I’d dismissed it as a possibility.” 

The kitchen bench is pressing against him, a firm line on his lower back. He wasn’t sure if this is what he wanted to happen when he started poking, but regardless, he’s rather pleased with the results. If he could only get Potter to move that frightfully calloused hand of his a little closer to his hip.

*

He hadn't _really_ expected Malfoy not to notice his staring, but it's still fucking humiliating being called out on it, which makes twice now. He wants to hit him. He also wants to kiss him and see if he can taste the wine on his lips. The fact that he hasn't moved makes Harry think that maybe Malfoy wouldn't stop him if he tried, which he doesn’t currently feel like analysing. 

He's thinking about doing it, _actually_ doing it, fuck absolutely everything and how much he hates Malfoy or how he's the most annoying git in the universe, because his lips have been taunting Harry all night and he's tipsy and hard and Ron and Hermione have a fucking kid and he, Harry, hasn't even slept with anyone in a quarter of a year and he kind of deserves this, whatever it is, a lapse into poor judgment he'll certainly pay for eventually ... 

But he doesn't get to, because there's the unmistakable sound of Ron pounding down the stairs and what Harry definitely doesn't need is Ron walking in on _that_ intentional mistake. He stares at Malfoy another second, back and forth between cool grey eyes that he still can't read, and finally steps away, turning back to the sink just as Ron comes in. 

"What the hell," he says, "I wasn't finished with that pudding, Harry. And quit doing our dishes, how many times do we have to tell you?"

*

Draco knows his delicate skin will bruise from where he was crowded against the counter, and he silently lists every Healing spell he can think of. _Anapneo, Episkey, Reparifors_ , until he regains confidence in his ability to string a sentence together.

”Well. You can take the speccy git out of Gryffindor, et cetera,” he says. Weasley must’ve been scolded good and proper, because he says nothing but “ha ha,” and lets Draco pass back into the dining room. Granger is there, holding a bundle of soft blue blankets with moving stars on them. 

“Ta ta, Granger. Thanks for the spread.”

“You’re off already?” Granger’s pile of blankets is squirming. 

“Afraid so,” Draco says. “I’ve another function to attend.”

The blankets are making snuffly little noises, and Draco can see a pink cheeked face nestled at the centre. 

“Sure,” Granger says. “Take some biscuits with you. Thanks for clearing up, Draco. You didn’t have to do that.”

Draco murmurs, “No bother.” 

“Would you like to hold her?” 

“Hm?”

“Rosie? Do you want a hold? She’s very placid right now.” 

It does look rather placid. And sweet, Draco supposes. It’s got Weasley’s complexion though, the poor thing. 

“No,” he says. “Children don’t like me.”

Granger rolls her eyes, grabs Draco about the wrist and places his hand gently at the babe’s forehead. 

For the second time in several minutes, Draco’s not at all sure how he’s ended up where he is. 

Uncertain of what to do, he strokes the soft skin with delicate fingers. It feels right, until he realises it’s what he used to do to his pet Crup as a child. Perhaps babies and Crups aren’t all that different. It would explain how Weasley was able to take care of one. 

“I’m not sure how you manage work at the hospital and taking care of this.” Draco speaks out loud without quite meaning to. 

Granger smiles and says, “Thanks.” 

“It wasn’t a compliment.” 

The kitchen door swings open, and then; “Why is Malfoy petting my child?”

*

Harry looks over his shoulder as Malfoy edges past Ron out of the kitchen, eyes dipping briefly, _helplessly_ , to his arse before he disappears. Then he lifts them to meet Ron’s gaze and realises he’s seen. 

“No,” he says, as Harry turns back to the sink with burning cheeks and vigorously washes a plate that’s already clean. “Harry. Gross.”

“Did I say anything?” Harry bites out. He sets a plate into the dish rack and it finally breaks, although he thinks that’s his highly reactive magic rather than the physical force he’d used. He sighs, uses his wand to clear it up, and rests his hands against the edge of the sink. He can’t turn around, because if he turns around Ron, like Malfoy, will see his (flagging, _finally_ ) erection. 

“You need to get laid,” says Ron. “Badly. No offence, mate. Let’s go out this weekend, yeah?”

“Whatever,” says Harry. “Sure.”

Ron makes a highly knowing noise but lets him be, going back out into the dining room where apparently Malfoy is petting Rose. 

He waits until he hears Malfoy leaving out the front door before emerging, drying his hands on a towel. 

“You know, Harry,” says Hermione, and he braces himself for whatever harsh truth is forthcoming (Ron shoots him a sympathetic grimace), “sometimes I can’t believe how much you’ve grown up when I see you working so hard on a case, going to meetings and doing paperwork and being professional in interviews.” She purses her lips then, looking uncomfortably like McGonagall. “And then Draco comes over for a nice, _adult_ dinner and suddenly you’re a teenager again. He’s grown up and it’s time for you to as well. And don’t think you’re excluded from that,” she adds suddenly, whipping around to glare at Ron. “The both of you had better get used to seeing him because _I_ enjoy his company.”

And with that she marches off back upstairs with Rose. 

“I can’t believe she didn’t notice you staring at his arse,” Ron says when she’s out of earshot. Harry flings the towel at him.

“See you later, Roonil.”

“Enjoy your wet dreams about Malfoy!” Ron calls after him.


	2. The Lift

It’s too good to be true that when Harry goes to see Hermione at Mungo’s two days later he doesn’t run into Malfoy. He’s been dreading it, almost asked someone else from the office to go for him, but that would be ridiculous. And also pathetic. He can’t avoid St Mungo’s for the rest of his life, not when seventy-five percent of his arrests land themselves there after putting up a fight. 

He thinks he might have actually gotten lucky, but all hopes of putting off dealing with Malfoy until next time disappear when the lift opens and there he is, dressed in the lime green Healer robes that look terrible on everyone else. He thinks of waiting for another lift and then decides that would be pathetic too. So he gets on and ignores him as well as the one other occupant, another Healer who does nothing to hide her glance at his scar. 

“Potter!” she says enthusiastically. He doesn’t know how successful he is suppressing a frown. “Always hoped I’d run into you round here one day, everyone always says you’re here visiting Granger. Heard about that raid you did last week — nasty business, will he be prosecuted?” 

“Yes,” Harry says dully. He’s still trying not to look at Malfoy. Thankfully the witch seems to take a hint, because she lifts her eyebrows and says nothing else until she gets off on the next level. 

He and Malfoy are alone for approximately five seconds before the lift jolts violently and then stops. 

He blinks at the doors, at the flashing emergency button, and says, “No. Nope.”

*

The thing about Potter, is that he’s kind of like one of those annoying songs that gets stuck in your head. And you’re singing it over and over, and it’s refusing to exit your consciousness, no matter how hard you try and force it out. And then somewhere between one thought and the next, it’s gone. And it can be gone for ages and ages, but when you hear it again it slots right back into inscencing prominence, as if it never left. Draco thinks.

Because he really, truly, had not thought about Harry Potter all that much in the last few years. After the mottled bruises from Weasley’s right hook and Potter’s elbow in his ribs when they fell together from the broom had faded, and he’d packed up his assorted bedrooms at the Manor into cardboard boxes, and said fuck you to Lucius and I’ll miss you to his Mum, and jaunted off to France with Pansy and Blaise to be young and sexy and not at all infamous, he had not thought about Harry Potter. 

And he found that not thinking about Potter freed up rather a lot of space. A lot of his time, too (Draco pulled many an all nighter in order to get those badges finished on time). Even when he was offered a residency at St Mungo’s by Hermione Granger’s side (so appallingly high paid that his decadent dining habits and penchant for expensive antique rugs couldn’t resist), and some long discarded, eleven year old part of him started to rustle, _Potter, Potter_ , he ignored it. He said fuck off. No thanks. 

And. Then. Potter sat next to him at Granger’s dining table, and called him a brat in the kitchen. Stood very close. Was hard in his trousers. And it was the song being blasted directly into Draco’s fucking ear drums. Has not left since. 

That is to say, Draco was thinking about Potter when he’d walked into the lift.

Draco was thinking about Potter when he swept out of Granger and Weasley’s flat, and ended up walking back to the rental instead of Apparating, because he was at the corner of his street before he’d realised what he was doing. He was thinking about Potter, with _forearms_ , when he’d had a louche, languid wank in the shower on Saturday morning. He was, obviously, thinking about Potter when he decided that it must have been that atrociously mediocre Merlot that made him act like such a shocking flirt. 

And Draco is still thinking about Potter when he says ‘no, nope’, as if it will help in any capacity, and jams his finger into the ‘doors, open’ button about fifteen times. 

“Nay,” Draco says, defaulting to his factory setting of be-a-dick because Merlin, it’s so early in the morning, and he hadn’t expected to have to deal with Potter again remotely this soon. “Not under any circumstances. Negative. By no means. Never.”

*

Harry grits his teeth and tries valiantly to keep himself in check when Malfoy starts mocking him, like it’s a law of nature. He thinks it really might be. 

“Shut up,” he snaps at him; it’s too sharp and too loud and probably lets Malfoy know he’s already managed to get under his skin. “Merlin’s fucking — just shut the fuck up for once, Malfoy. Jesus.” 

He takes his wand out and taps the doors, which do nothing. 

“Something’s wrong,” he says. He tries to cast a Patronus to send a message to Hermione and only manages a wisp of smoke. The sudden suppression of his magic — and being trapped with Malfoy in a six-by-six lift — makes him so tense and anxious he can feel sweat starting to bead on the back of his neck. He attempts a wandless Cooling Charm that doesn’t do much more than create a crackle of magic that dissipates quickly. Worrying. Extremely worrying. 

Taking a breath, he pockets his wand again and pushes a hand through his hair.

“You try something. Maybe I’m — just try a Cooling Charm.”

*

"I always knew you peaked too early, Potter," Draco says, drawing his wand from the standard issue hospital holster on his arm. "And now you're withering." 

Potter grumbles something into his shoulder, and Draco smirks as he prepares to cast. Perhaps twenty-three is a little old to be feeling superior over something so juvenile, but he can tell Potter's bothered by the malfunction. And he is decidedly not. Eight years sleeping in an underwater dungeon does wonders for one's fear of enclosed spaces.

Except Draco loses his edge rather quickly, because his spell fizzles just as quickly as Potter's. And now that he thinks about it, and centres himself, he feels rather dim. Stifled. Like someone's holding a pillow down over his magical core.

*

He's not _glad_ Malfoy's magic doesn't work, because he wants to get the fuck out of here. But he _is_ glad for the look on his smug face when his charm doesn't work, so there's that. 

"Withering," he says sardonically. "Right. S'pose you are too then? Only ... hm ... I don't recall you _ever_ peaking."

A low blow, perhaps. Malfoy's plenty talented — clearly — but he's fucking irritated, all right? It's not the enclosed space (cupboard, stairs) but rather the suppression of his magic. He hates feeling powerless, especially around Draco sodding Malfoy.

*

Draco says, "That's because I live my life at the peak, Potter." That horrible distressed fog of his sixth year, where the only thing he really, properly remembers is the filthy brand of Dark magic on the soft underside of his arm, an Easter holiday spent huddled in his bedroom because he Dark Lord could be sitting in his breakfast nook, the utter recalcitrant of a lift stopping between floors with only him and Potter trapped inside.

Yes, Draco's life has been a behemoth, an absolute colossus of a peak.

*

Harry decides to ignore him. This can’t possibly take that long, it’s not as if it’s a Muggle lift running on electricity. 

The problem is that it’s the middle of winter and the hospital is warm to compensate, and with neither of them capable of producing a Cooling Charm the heat starts becoming oppressive after only ten minutes (in which they stand on opposite sides of the small space and don’t look at each other). 

For good measure he gives his wandless magic one more go to no avail, and finally gives into the strong urge to take his heavy Auror robes off. Irritated, he simply lets them fall to the floor and then follows, sliding down the side of the lift to sit in the corner, not unlike a grumpy child. 

He pushes the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbow and then hangs his head, eyes closed, trying not to pay attention to the sweat beading on his temples. 

“This is fucking bollocks,” he mutters. “What the fuck is going on.”

*

Gods, Potter is still dim as a dead fucking stick. 

"Isn't it obvious?" Draco says, and when Potter continues to look at him blankly (sweaty, and bare armed under his Auror robes, but that's entirely _irrelevant_ ), he does his most put upon sigh and brandishes his wand. 

"Our magic is being suppressed, yes? Well, you can't cast Stifling Spells in magical hospitals, for obvious reasons. Ergo — that means therefore, Potter — something else has to be doing the Stifling. And since the lift, which is powered by magic, has also stopped, we're left with the, I repeat, _obvious_ conclusion that someone's brought Muggle electronics past our censors."

*

He starts to scoff and then realises it's pretty sound logic: he even remembers Hermione mentioning something once about a failsafe in case the hospital ever encountered a large-scale Stifling — like, well, _this_ — but of course it applies only to the essentials, which doesn't include lifts.

He closes his eyes and tries to block out his surroundings, to find some minuscule vibration of magic in the dense air around him, and if not that then to access his own magical core through sheer will power alone. He does feel something heavy spark to life deep in his gut and for a heart-stopping moment the lift actually vibrates, but as soon as he's opened his eyes and looked wildly around, the spark is out like a flame and he feels powerless again.

"Very clever of you, Malfoy," Harry says tiredly, head tipping back against the wall. "Now if only you were capable of doing more than mouthing off and being an annoying know-it-all git. D'you know I think I'd fancy being stuck in here with Percy Weasley over you? I really do."

*

“But if Percy Weasley were here,” Draco says, deciding that if they’re going to be stuck for a while, he may as well act the proper, actual cunt and enjoy himself a bit. “Whatever would you stare at?”

*

Harry’s jaw clenches and he fights the sense of humiliation with some small modicum of success, only because he _hadn’t_ been staring at Malfoy. Today. The reminder of the disastrous dinner at Ron and Hermione’s house rankles though. 

“I’d stare at _him_ ,” says Harry, glancing sardonically up at Malfoy, rolling his eyes, and pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead. “And I’d be grateful for it considering the current view is giving me indigestion.”

What it’s actually giving him is an extremely uncomfortable erection that will make it impossible to continue sitting on the floor much longer.

*

Well! 

Unlike Potter (who had thrown off his robes without so much as a thought to what the sight of his browned, bare forearms would do to Certain People’s brain function), Draco knows exactly what he’s doing when he unbuttons his. Shrugs them off both shoulders, and stretches his arms over his head so they drop to the floor (the hideously thick lime green canvas will crinkle something awful, but it’s worth it for dramatic effect.) 

He won’t have Potter lusting for Percy The Eunuch Weasley over him, even in jest.

*

Harry glances up instinctively at the sudden movement from Malfoy and regrets it instantly when he sees the shirt under his Healer’s robes ride up. 

The soft milky whiteness of his midriff would have been bad enough on its own, but Harry barely has the brain power to admire it (or imagine touching it) thanks entirely to the small silver hoop adorning Malfoy’s infuriatingly perfect little belly button. It’s covered up again too quickly but the image of it is burned into Harry’s vision. 

He stands and grabs up his Auror robes to hold them strategically so they cover his crotch. And he _doesn’t_ look at Malfoy or think about plucking that absurdity of a navel ring.

“You know, if those wrinkle,” says Harry, gesturing to Malfoy’s robes, “you’ll look only half as poncy as usual. And, really, that would be _such_ a shame. It’s your most charming attribute.”

*

Ta, Blaise and Pansy. He’d only gotten his navel pierced as an ode to their friendship (Pans’ a black ring, Blaise’s gold) on one particularly drunken tromp through the night-time city. 

He’d discovered quite swiftly that the pinchy little bastard holds an almost universal fancy — every bloke he’s fucked since has groaned upon his disrobing, said “fuck, that’s hot, et cetera,” and given the thing a tug. 

Clearly, Potter is no exception. 

Draco waves a hand at his robes, popping one shoulder blade to rest against the wall of the still-halted lift. “I see no appeal in your bedraggled aesthetic.” He tilts his head. “Though I expect, perhaps, it might be rather handy.”

*

"Yes, how terribly _bedraggled_ I usually am," Harry says facetiously, though almost out of habit his hand goes to his hair in yet another fruitless attempt to flatten it. He's _not_ bedraggled, thanks. The Auror robes are in fact so pompous and stuffy he sometimes thinks he might have to quit the force just so he _can_ be a bit bedraggled when he feels like it. Plus the colour has always been too close to Dudley's old Smeltings uniform for his comfort — all it needs is a cane. Right now, he would use it to beat Malfoy to death, probably. 

Out of nothing more than desperation, he punches a few of the lift buttons again and when it doesn't work, he throws his robes against the wall. How long have they been in here? It can't be more than fifteen minutes yet it feels like hours, and he can't stop thinking about that obnoxious little navel piercing, and it's bloody _sweltering_ , and at this point all Harry can smell is Malfoy's cologne because it's successfully filled the entirety of the small space.

*

Hm. He had been about to scold Potter for throwing a proper fit (his tantruming is making Draco awfully claustrophobic), but. However. As Potter flings his robes from where they’d been ever so subtly bunched at his waist, Draco feels a rather sudden thrum of déjà vu. 

“My, Potter,” he says. “Once a coincidence, twice a habit.”

*

Yes, it's _still_ been three months since he's slept with anyone. And it's _really_ not so much of an issue usually, seeing as he's not sixteen and hormonal and constantly horny anymore. It's Malfoy that's the issue. Apparently. Which, actually, doesn't make the situation any less humiliating. He shouldn't have tossed the robes, he thinks grimly. He needs to get control of himself, and fast.

"D'you mind not looking at my dick every time we're around each other?" he snaps. "It's already getting old."

*

Draco sneers. He’s not _looking_. It’s just. Quite prominent. Not because of size, of course (Draco’s sure that’s all in the drape of Potter’s trousers), but utter temerity. 

“And would _you_ mind, awfully, not parading it about like a bloody trophy every time you get within five feet of me? You’re offending my virtue.”

*

Harry blinks, surprised by what looks like genuine irritation on Malfoy's face suddenly rather than pure mockery. _Parading it about like a trophy_ seems a bit dramatic, but that's rather to be expected, so. 

Also, _what_?

"You don't _have_ any virtue, Malfoy," Harry says drily. "You're evil down to the core, I can sense it. I truly apologise that you're feeling threatened but seeing as we're trapped in a fucking lift at the moment can I once again suggest simply _not looking_? Believe me, it's nothing to do with you."

*

“Utter tosh,” Draco says, waving his hand and imagining Potter’s little you’re-evil-and-always-will-be comment being battered to pieces. “You pop a fucking stiffy whenever you _see me_.”

*

"I've seen you _twice_ ," Harry bites out, and there goes his attempt at getting himself under control. He's still thinking about that navel ring and even worse than that, having Malfoy consistently drawing attention to it is actually making his cock harder. Death sounds amazing. "I'm not sure that qualifies as _whenever_. Not that it matters," he adds, glancing once at Malfoy's mouth (god, that's a bad idea) and then away, "because even if it _was_ you I would clearly be more than happy to ignore it until we were out of this nightmare."

*

Draco rolls his eyes. “Gods, Potter. For all your assertions that I’m the coward here.” 

He’d stepped closer before, now he steps back. Lets his words creep into the space between them. “You want me.”

Potter clenches his fists at his thighs, Draco grips the thread hard and keeps pulling. 

“You _want me_ , and you won’t admit it, because attraction to the evil incarnate would be such a terrible stain on your sparkling morality.”

*

The way Malfoy _says_ it, there's a twist of arousal so sharp it actually hurts. His throbbing cock _definitely_ hurts. He can feel his flies digging into it. He hates Malfoy right now in a way he hasn't hated him since they were in school together.

So, all right. Malfoy, notably, is the one who won't drop it, which really should absolve Harry of responsibility regarding any insane decisions he might choose to make, such as playing into the taunt.

He takes a careful step forwards to compensate for Malfoy's, and at least he's had _practise_ being intimidating these days ... or whatever. 

"You're not evil incarnate, Malfoy," he says, and takes another step towards him. "You're, like, evil's little sideshow. If I want you, it's only because it would be an absolute pleasure to put you in your place for once."

*

Draco's been told, often, that he has an awful habit of speaking before he thinks. "I don't know about Gryffindors, but us Slytherins aren't in the practice of denying ourselves pleasure." Draco wets his bottom lip. "To paraphrase, Potter; do it, then."

*

Harry can actually feel his self control crumble, like a dam reaching its limit. It happens the moment he sees Malfoy’s tongue sweeping across his lower lip. It makes sense: he’d gotten reamed more than once in Auror training for his tendency to give into urges. 

He stares at Malfoy another second, all white hair and tantalising grey eyes, and Harry pushes him lightly back against the wall of the lift. 

“You know, Malfoy,” he says, closing in on his space, “you’re not nearly as clever as you think you are.” He slides his fingers over the material of Malfoy’s shirt, finding the bump of the navel ring and tugging gently. The other hand goes to his hip. “How long have you been gagging for this, exactly?”

*

Draco squirms slightly. He really hasn’t taken a minute to ask himself what exactly he’s fucking doing until, hm, right now, which isn’t very Slytherin of him at all. 

However, despite not knowing quite _what_ he’s doing, he’s pretty sure he’s getting what he wants. Which is Slytherin enough for the time being. 

“Gagging is far too aggressive of a verb,” he says.

*

Harry laughs, because _really_ , it wouldn't be Malfoy if he wasn't being whiny and contradictory.

"Is it?" he says, tugging the belly ring again. This close, he can just see Malfoy's tongue between his pink lips. He wants to punch him and he wants to taste the inside of his mouth. It's very confusing. "What verb would you use, then?"

*

If Potter keeps pulling on his piercing, Draco’s going to do something awfully embarrassing. Like whine. Or come in his trousers. 

“Don’t pretend,” he says, “that you know what a verb is.”

*

Another unsurprising answer. Of course. 

He tugs on the piercing again, a little harder, until he can feel the pull. He's not exactly sure what he's aiming for at this point since he's certainly _not_ going to fuck Malfoy in this broken lift, but he absolutely wants to see how far Malfoy is willing to go with it.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that. One more time?"

*

Draco feels a mewl rise in his throat, but purses stubborn lips around it. Potter hasn't moved, except to tug on his navel ring like he's trying to fucking jerk it off, or something, but still he feels impossibly closer. 

"I called you an idiot. Halfwit. Imbecile." Draco bites into the flesh of his lip when Potter grips harder on his hip. "Do keep up."

*

"Oh, I am keeping up," Harry says. His voice is lower, although he hadn't done that on purpose. He's also harder than he can remember being since the first few months of his last relationship.

And that's absolutely no fun to think about, so he focuses instead on Malfoy and his navel ring and his bitten lips and the gleam in his eye that says he's very turned on right now.

"You, however," says Harry, "don't seem to be doing quite as well. How many more names will you be calling me before you decide to ask for what you want?"

*

What he _wants_ is for Potter to crawl back into the fucking hovel whence he came, and never tempt Draco with his wiry forearms ever again. 

Unfortunately, he seems to want other things more. He wishes Pansy were here. She'd give him a proper scolding and remind him never to trust his own instincts (because they're completely useless), and then take him home and get him drunk enough to forget he ever did something so stupid. 

"I want you," Draco says, _to fuck me. Turn me around and do it right up against this wall_. But he's never been good at asking for what he wants. Only demanding. So instead he looks at Potter as steadily as he can, and rolls his hips against his.

*

Harry's always liked being in control of things; he's a good leader, he's _comfortable_ leading, being in charge, giving orders if he needs to ... it's never felt like this, though. Especially not under these particular (sexual) circumstances.

His veins seem to shiver with anticipation at Malfoy's confession, which _he'd_ gotten out of him. Suddenly he wants to make him say more things, make more noises. So as difficult as it is, he puts both hands on Malfoy's hips and stills them.

"You want me ... what?" says Harry. "Use your words, Malfoy."

*

Draco's helpless to stop the sound of complaint that escapes him when Potter stops his frotting after only a moment of friction. _Fuck you, fuck off, fucking cretin_. Draco doesn't get told what to do. He tells. 

"Just, _fuck_ ," he says. Wriggles under Potter's hands. "Let me."

*

Harry lets out a breathless laugh. To have reduced Draco Malfoy to a fumbling, half-delirious mess on the very _brink_ of begging ... well, it's a phenomenal feeling, if anyone wanted to know. 

Not that he wants anyone else to know. This is for him.

"Close," says Harry, in as casual a voice as he can muster. He applies more pressure to Malfoy's hips to try and stay them, as good as it feels. He then gives into the mad temptation to bury his face in Malfoy's neck, where he noses along the skin beneath his ear and then nips at it gently. "Let you what?"

*

"Let me," Draco says, and that's when Potter bites at the soft seam of his shoulder, and he feels any semblance of control he still had over the situation he's orchestrated slip like silk through his white-knuckled fingers. "More. Touch me. Please."

*

There it is. And god, Harry has to fight not to let it show exactly how much it's getting to him. The _please_ is what nearly breaks him.

They're in a fucking lift, is the thing. At St Mungo's, where, yes, something's happened to stifle their magic, but it could be resolved at literally any moment and is this _really_ the sort of chaos he wants to invite into his life?

"That wasn't so hard," Harry says. He moves both hands in order to unzip Malfoy's flies and tug his trousers down his slim waist, just enough that both hip bones are blissfully exposed and he can see his erection through ... yeah, that's definitely silk. "God," Harry sighs, drifting his fingers along the shape of it, "you're such a fucking ponce. D'you go around hoping this'll happen or is it just silk for silk’s sake every day for you?"

*

"Sometimes it's lace," Draco says. Huffs and bucks into Potter's hand. Fucking finally.

*

Well. He _had_ asked, had he not? The mental image alone is something he could wank to for weeks, probably.

"Of course," Harry says. Close to salivating, he palms the outline of Malfoy's cock and watches him carefully. Ideally, he'd like to see him break. "Silly of me. You _do_ go around hoping for this, then?"

*

Yes, yes, yes, _please_. Draco says, "I think you like the thought of that a little too much. Do try not to drool on me," and then yelps when Potter starts pinching a bridge between his hip bones. 

He's starting to feel shagged out, utterly fucked, the way he usually feels when he's getting properly boffed, or giving a proper boffing. And Potter hasn't even touched his bare cock yet. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

*

"I promise not to drool if you promise not to come the second I touch your cock," Harry says in a (quite impressively, thanks) measured voice. "D'you think you can handle that, Malfoy, or should we take a break?"

*

Draco wishes he could make that promise with any kind of confidence. "I'm not the one who's been hard for the last twenty minutes," Draco says. "Tell me, Potter — _ah, fuck_ — has it really been that long since you've gotten your cock wet?"

*

He wonders whether Malfoy realises exactly how right he is, or if it's simply a taunt for the sake of taunting. Almost three whole months since he's fucked anyone, and for what? Because his relationship had gone out so explosively he'd only been in the mood for his left hand? Here, trapped in a lift with Malfoy of all _fucking_ people, it all seems so stupid.

"These would be fantastic insults," says Harry, "if you weren't literally humping my hand as you're saying them." Heart racing, he makes a split second decision: "Turn around."

*

Not _humping_. Merely responding. 

Draco says, "Ng," and does as he's told.

*

Truthfully, he's surprised Malfoy responds to the command so fast. Broken he'd wanted and apparently broken he's gotten. His cock (which, as he was reminded, has been hard for the past twenty minutes) twitches and he bites back a groan. With his trousers pulled slightly down, Harry can see two perfect little dimples above Malfoy's arse that make him feel half mad with lust.

"You like when I tell you what to do," he says quietly — more to himself, as a discovery. It works out nicely, since he can't think of anything he's enjoyed as much as he's enjoying bossing a horny Malfoy around. He tugs his trousers lower to rest below the swell of his ( _perfect_ , fuck) arse. It takes every bit of his strength to only skim his fingers along the cleft, barely dipping between.

*

It’s not the reveal to Draco that it seems to be for Potter. Yes, he likes to be ordered around sometimes. He also likes a pretty mouth around his cock, and for it to do exactly as he says. Draco is _versatile_. 

He wriggles his arse when it’s exposed to the warm, tacky air of the lift. Potter rests a calloused thumb on either side of his spine. 

“Shut up,” Draco mutters. “Fuck me.”

*

"Ah, ah," Harry lilts. "Thought we established I'm the one giving commands right now. What happened, Malfoy, you used to be a quick learner in school, didn't you?" But he dips his fingers between Malfoy's arse cheeks, and the grip on his waist strengthens when he feels his tight little hole. Slowly, he presses the tip of his middle finger inside and then stops. "Your hands," he says. "On the wall. Where I can see them."

*

Draco makes a sound of raw frustration, teeth clicking. “ _Fine_ ,” and brings his palms to the wall with a heavy thud. 

If Potter doesn’t hurry the fuck up, he’s going to. Fucking, _Gods_. He’d like to say turn them over and do it himself, but cry is probably a more accurate assessment. Or beg. 

He’ll kick out the bottom of the lift and plummet to his death before he lets that happen, though.

*

Yeah, he could definitely get used to this. He likes this squirming, needy Malfoy so much he sinks his finger all the way in to the knuckle and leaves it there unmoving, just to see how close he can bring him to the edge. As an experiment.

"How's that?" he asks. His other hand slides around to Malfoy's stomach, finding the navel ring again and pulling lightly.

*

Draco moans, drops his head onto the wall in front of him, slightly slick from condensation. 

He tries to drive himself backwards, but Potter is resolute. A menace, keeping him still there. A cunt. Torturing him from either end as he tugs on his belly ring.

*

Harry bites down on his lip and closes his eyes, slightly overwhelmed by the sight of Malfoy trying to fuck himself backwards on his fingers. He doesn't let him, of course, but only because the pleasure he gains from being in control of everything beats it by the smallest margin.

"I asked you a question," he says. He pulls his finger out and forces in a second when he slides back in, still foregoing lube just yet. "I'd answer it if you want me to fuck you eventually."

*

Draco makes a soft sound (and it’s not a squeak) when Potter pushes a second finger past his rim. Fuck, it burns, and Potter’s fingers are bigger than his own, especially without lube. 

“Feels good,” he manages, because he does want that. Wants it, wants it, wants it.

*

Malfoy actually _squeaks_ when Harry gets that second finger inside, which goes straight to his cock. It almost feels worth it to give in and just fuck him already, but he gathers all of his (not inconsiderable, when he puts his mind to it) will power and forces himself to wait and keep pace. It's a _good_ pace, especially when it gets Malfoy to breathily admit things like how good it feels to have Harry's fingers in his arse.

And then the worst occurs to him.

"Fuck," he breathes; he can hear something close to a whine in his own voice now. He tips his head forward against Malfoy's, breathing on the back of his neck. "My magic. I can't Conjure lube."

*

“Do it anyway,” Draco says, feeling half out of his mind with wanting. “Do it, Potter, get it in me, now.”

*

"No way," he says firmly, pulling his fingers out. It would be so easy. God, it would be _too_ easy, but he's not quite lust-clouded enough yet (like, apparently, Malfoy) to ignore what a terrible idea it would be.

He has to unbutton his trousers before he gets to his knees, making room for his painfully hard cock. He tugs Malfoy's further down his neverending legs and without much preamble pulls his cheeks apart, swallowing at the sight. "Keep your hands on the wall."

*

“What’re you — oh, Merlin’s _fucking arse_.” Potter is licking, _licking_ at his rim, and it’s not like he’s never been eaten out before, but this is Potter. On his knees, grasping the fleshy swell of his arse as he noses in between. 

It hits Draco then, when his abdomen begins to coil, what he’s actually doing. His Healer’s robes are bunched at his feet. He’s about two seconds away from coming all over them. He’s at _work_ , if someone sees them, he’ll get fired.

He moans, grasps at the wall, because he —

“Can’t, Potter, _can’t_.”

*

Harry doesn't bother to ask what _can't_ means. He's too busy pushing his tongue past Malfoy's tight ring of muscle, where, by the way, he tastes fucking _perfect_. He could happily sit here letting his knees bruise against the unforgiving floor of the lift if it meant keeping his face buried in Malfoy's arse. He works him open more quickly than he'd have liked to because — well, _because_. They're in a fucking lift. He uses his tongue to press globs of spit inside, fucking him with it steadily, until his cheeks and fingers are wet and he's so hard he genuinely believes his brain is in danger for how little blood it's receiving.

It's a poor job, but fuck, it'll have to do. He climbs to his feet again and presses two fingers back inside, pleased with the lack of friction. It's saliva and it'll dry out fast, but he wasn't really planning on drawing this out anyway.

Again, they're in a _fucking_. _Lift_.

He takes his cock out finally and huffs out a breath when he gets a hand around it, again using his own spit to ease the slide. It feels completely surreal when he lines up with Malfoy's hole, prodding lightly with the head but not pushing in.

"What are you gonna do with your hands, Malfoy?"

*

Draco pants out a breath. In his desperately horny delirium (because fuck, Potter, get it _in_ already), he reaches back to hold himself open for the cock that’s teasing his cleft, only to have his wrists grasped so hard that the pointy outer bones thud against one another.

*

He can't tell anymore if Malfoy's purposely being defiant or if he's so gone he genuinely thinks this is what Harry meant.

"No, Malfoy," he says in a tone that implies he's speaking to a child. He doesn't _mean_ to grab his wrists so hard, but in all fairness he's told him about a million times where to put his stupid fucking hands. "On the _wall_. Now."

*

Draco says, “ _Oh_ ,” and lets the thrum of arousal soak through him when Potter slams his palms flush to the slippery metal. 

He’ll have to workshop some truly devastating insults to get him back for this — for making him obey so mindlessly, making him feel so good.

*

Harry takes a moment to be kind of impressed with himself for having reduced Malfoy to this suppliant creature who can only manage little "oh" sounds rather than words. But only a moment, because he will definitely disintegrate into a pile of dust if he doesn't get his cock inside Malfoy immediately.

After he gets the head past the initial muscle (groaning at the way Malfoy squeezes around him), he takes his time sinking the rest of the way inside, savouring every inch as he buries it in all that tight, wet heat. One hand on Malfoy's waist, the other flat across his navel where he can feel the ring digging into his palm, he forces the whole length of it inside before finally pausing to ask, in a much less authoritative voice, "You good?"

*

Draco’s sure it’s just the lack of proper lubrication that’s making him feel utterly split open by Potter’s (average sized, definitely) cock. That, and the way it’s being reamed into his spit-slicked hole. 

He mewls and wants to leave it at that, but he knows Potter will insist on words, so he forces out a “Yes, move.”

*

And Harry does move, torturously so, reveling in the clinging grip around his cock and the sight of his own spit smeared on its length. But no sooner than he pulls out and thrusts gratefully back in — once, _one time_ — does he feel the lift suddenly begin vibrating. He's so drunk on the feeling of his cock being completely sheathed in Malfoy's body that it takes the lift actually moving for him to realise what's going on.

"Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, fuck.” He digs his fingers unconsciously into Malfoy's skin. He _could_ keep fucking him. Nothing is physically stopping him. It's even possible they have enough time before anyone comes to use the lift that they might be able to finish, if they hurry. But it's only a maybe, and even through the fog in his brain Harry knows that’s not good enough. 

He’s literally walked, stone cold, to his own death, he reminds himself. If he can do that and not this, there's something wrong with him.

With unbearable effort, he pulls out and (biting down too-hard on his lip) manages to shove his throbbing prick back into his boxers and zip up. "Get your robes on," he says, "quickly."

*

Draco makes a bereft little noise when Potter pulls out of him, and shakes his head at the request to redress. The lift is moving, he can feel that even through the thick fog of needing that’s chattering in his bones, and he doesn’t care. 

Draco needs Potter’s cock back inside of him more than he needs his job, surely, more than he needs to be spared the public humiliation of being found in such a compromising position. 

“Come back,” he says. “Need it.”

*

 _Need it_ is an admittedly sound argument, but Harry resists. By the absolute skin of his teeth, he resists. He throws on his Auror robes in spite of being covered in sweat for good measure.

"No," he says, and grabs Malfoy's robes from the floor as well. "Seriously, Malfoy, get these on, I don't need a fucking photo in the _Prophet_ tomorrow."

*

Ugh. Trust Potter to wrangle mention of his fame at a time like this. Draco wants to say as much, but it’s enough effort already to pull himself shakily from the wall, and take his robes from where Potter’s holding them out. 

His trousers are still at his thighs, but zips elude him. He can’t. Will not.

Draco drapes his robes about his shoulders, and goes back to the steadying comfort of the corner. 

The lift is surely about to open: he’d only been on his way to Magical Ailments and Diseases on the second floor, he needs to get a grip, but all he can fucking think of is the when and the how and the please of getting Potter back inside him long enough to unwind the knot behind his navel, his ribs.

*

"Look, I'm sorry," he says awkwardly, not quite knowing why, just that he feels like he needs to based on the look Malfoy's wearing. "I can't just —" But the lift opens and, lo and behold, there's no one waiting outside the doors. However, there _are_ a couple orderlies just down the corridor, and that's definitely something, right? Definitely worth not fucking Malfoy. Yeah.

He looks at him across the lift and wonders what the fuck he's supposed to say, and what’s suppos ed to happen now. What he even _wants_ to happen now.

"I … have to get back to work," he forces out. _Come over later_. "D'you ..." He swallows. Rubs the back of his head. "Um. When are you off?"

*

When is he off? _When_ is he _off_? 

Only Potter would have the duality to do something as evil as bringing Draco to this kind of brink and leaving him wanting, and then be a stupid, _stupid_ fucking Gryffindor and ask him out for what, a date? A continuation? 

“Fuck off,” Draco says, and with much less bite than he meant it. He’s sure he looks a sight, and his flies are still undone, and he’s probably going to have to take the lift down to the nice, cool file room and sit in there for at least an hour until he’ll be fit to treat any patients. “I get off at twelve. AM. By which time I shall’ve reached triple digits on the list of the reasons why this is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever done. Excuse me.”

*

Right. So _when are you off_ can probably be added to the list of the dumbest, most embarrassing, socially inept things Harry’s ever said, right up there with whatever he’d blurted into Cho’s face after being rejected for the Yule Ball. The kind of thing that will haunt him at two AM and refuse to let him sleep until he’s ruminated over it for most of the night. Perfect. On the other hand, he’s got wank material for pretty much the rest of his life, so. Not the worst trade-off in history. 

Still, he feels bad. Malfoy sounds uncomfortably bereft when he says “fuck off”.

He watches him go without a word, toying with the idea of going after him (which he does not), and then presses the button that’ll take him down to the first floor, knowing perfectly well he’ll be unable to concentrate at work the rest of the day and wondering how hard Hermione will take it when Malfoy suddenly starts refusing to see her anymore outside of work.


	3. The Confidantes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're messing around with the formatting a bit, let us know if this reads more fluidly 😌

“Pansy!” Draco calls, pulling his robes over his head as he strides out of the stairwell (obviously) and into the foyer of her offices. He’s learned, from gruelling past experience, never to wear his (sickly, ghastly, makes you look like a fucking expired ice lolly) lime green Healer’s robes in front of Pansy. Or Blaise.

Ugh. Pansy’s cunty little assistant is sitting at the secretary’s desk, and she’s a cunt for many reasons but her most heinous offence is that she often makes Draco _wait_ , like a pleb, instead of letting him go on through to Pansy’s office like the last one did when he brought her chocolate biscuits. He’s tried the same tactic on the new girl, but she doesn’t eat processed sugars. The bitch.

If she pulls it this time, Draco thinks he might have to impale her with that nail file she always seems to be using instead of doing any actual work. 

“Yes, hello Dominique,” Draco says, and drops his robes on her desk as he passes. “I’d love to have a chat, but I really must speak with Ms Parkinson. She in? Lovely.” 

Dominique may be a useless little sycophant, but she’s awfully quick. “You can’t go in there, Mr Malfoy,” she says, hand curling around Draco’s on the knob of Pansy’s heavy mahogany door. “She’s on a Floo call.”

“Dominique,” says Draco. “Sweetheart. I’ve just finished a twelve hour turn, during which I was stuck in a fucking lift for half a fucking hour with a fucking idiot who has a fucking _Quaffle_ for a brain and knows not the first. Fucking. Thing. About shagging etiquette. Let me in.”

Dominique tilts her pretty blonde head (Merlin, Pansy’s glaringly unsubtle.) “How’d you get stuck in a lift? Couldn’t you just use a spell to get out?”

“Let me in.” 

“I—”

“Let me in. Let me in let me in let me in let me in—”

*

" _What_ the hell is going on out here?"

The snap in her voice gets Draco (of course, she should have known) to snap his jaw shut. She can tell just by the sight of him that he's disheveled emotionally — add to that the fact that he looks physically out of sorts as well and Pansy's curiosity is sufficiently piqued. Enough even to calm her temper, which at this hour is easily stoked.

She isn’t usually one to gripe about work — it’s boorish — but she’s been going nonstop the last couple weeks while they transition head of operations from Paris to London. She is in some respects glad to be back home, but Merlin, it’s strange. 

"I'm so sorry, Ms Parkinson," Dominique says obsequiously, standing from the desk. "I tried to stop him —" here she shoots Draco a devastatingly bitchy glare "— and he started throwing a tantrum."

Pansy's sharp gaze travels from her assistant’s Moschino pumps, up dark-stockinged legs, to her pretty face. 

At least she'd brought Dominique along.

"It's all right, darling, his mother couldn't stop his tantrums either, I'd hardly expect you to. Come in, Draco," she says to him, gesturing him into her office. "Dominique, fetch us some tea and you can leave for the night."

Inside the office, Pansy returns to the extravagant chair behind her desk and observes Draco with an arched brow.

"Well?" she drawls. "It had better be good."

*

“Your assistant is a cow, Pans,” Draco says, and then louder to make sure Dominique can hear him through the door, “A daft fucking cow!”  
  


*

“Don’t be such a lout, Draco,” Pansy scolds him gently through a smirk. “Dominique is quite useful and very good at her job. Now,” she crosses a leg lightly over the other and dangles a sharp stiletto from her foot, “out with it. Or I’ll send you on your way.”

*

Draco murmurs, “I’m sure she’s very _useful_ ,” but then Pansy kicks him in the shin so he huffs and collapses into the chair opposite hers. 

“I did something,” he says into his palm. “Inadvisable.”

*

“Oh?” Pansy hums. “More inadvisable than the time we went to that rave in the Parisian catacombs?”

*

Draco scowls. Pansy would bring that up, the bloody trollop. 

“That was _fun_. I stand by my decision,” he says. “So yes, more inadvisable than that. By a wide margin.”

*

Pansy laughs lightly — it _had_ been an exquisite night, she would never deny it. Highly moronic, probably, but so undeniably aesthetic, too. 

Dominique comes in with their tea, preens under Pansy’s praise, and then wishes her a good night while deliberately ignoring Draco. 

“Shall I spike your tea?” Pansy teases. “Do you need a morale booster, darling?”

*

“I need a Nausea Potion. Honestly, Pansy, how you get anything done with that bint’s head so far up your fucking arse is beyond me.”

*

“Enough,” Pansy says. It’s not _sharp_ , per se, but it brooks no further dawdling around the subject. “What is this about?”

*

Draco tries his hardest not to, but it’s inevitable. He always goes a bit pouty when Pansy gets sharp with him. “It’s. Do you remember when I took the Mark?” he says, as if any of them could ever forget.

*

Well. It’s not what she’d been expecting at all, and suddenly there’s a pit of anxiety in her stomach. She lowers the cup of tea she’d been about to sip.

“No, Draco,” she says sarcastically. “I can’t remember a thing about it. Is this something to do with your father? What’s going on?”

*

He can’t blame Pansy for neglecting her tea. Dominique’s swill always tastes like some variation on diluted piss (although Draco’s has probably been spat in. So.) 

He says, “You’re very funny, Pans. Very very funny. No, it’s nothing to do with Lucius. It’s just— fuck, I think this might be the stupidest thing I’ve done since then.”

*

She sets her cup down sharply and levels him with a piercing stare. “ _Out with it_ ,” Pansy fairly orders him. “Now, Draco. It’s almost one in the morning, I don’t have time for your histrionics. If you’ve done something illegal you can go to Blaise, I’m too busy right now for this.”  
  


*

“I’m not being _histrionic_ , I’m being _honest_. Maybe I will go and see Blaise. You and your cold, unsympathetic heart will rue the day, Pans, when Blaise knows and you don’t, and it’ll serve you— _fuck_ , those heels are sharp, you utter cunt. Fine.” 

Draco turns his head into the crook of his elbow. “I sort of fucked Potter,” he says, and squeezes his eyes so tightly shut that little folds of his shirt crinkle in his lids. “Just a little bit, though.”

*

A moment of silence, and then Pansy erupts into ringing peals of laughter that echo off the walls of the (spacious) office. She lets it take hold of her, deep, gut-splitting belly laughs that bring tears to her eyes and wet her cheeks. It’s highly relieving and just exactly the sort of delightful gossip she’d needed to lift her spirits. 

“Darling, we’ve been back home less than a month,” she says when she’s gotten control of herself. “It didn’t take you long at all, did it? Well, let’s hear it, then.” She grabs her tea again, recrosses her legs, and leans back in her chair. “Is he a terrible kisser? I’d have to assume so.”

*

Granger’s starting to look like an awfully appealing contender for Draco’s best female friend, because his current one is even more of a cow than her arse-licking assistant. 

“First of all, Pansy,” Draco says, getting up from his chair so he can rant his way through this thing properly. “As there’s _nothing funny_ about the predicament I’ve found myself in, I’m willing to deem that little display the result of severe shock, because and only because of our long lasting friendship. Second of all, ‘it didn’t take you long’? Fuck you. And third of all, I haven’t a clue what kind of kisser Potter is. I share your assumption that he’s appalling, but as if I’d ever endeavour to find out, so don’t be foul.”

*

Pansy lifts a smug grin to Draco as he rises from his chair the same way he’s always done when he’s building steam. She decides not to point out the sheer number of times he’s done exactly this to her whilst ranting about the Pleb Who Lived.

What does surprise her a little bit, however, is the note of real hysteria in his voice. She hasn’t seen Draco this genuinely worked up in some time.

“Wait,” she says slowly, latching onto that latter bit of fascinating information and turning it over in her mind. “You _fucked_ him without kissing once? _Potter_?” Mystifying. Completely captivating. She sits up a little straighter. “From start to finish, if you don’t mind. Where in the world did you manage this?”

*

Draco winces. Amused as she is, Pansy's going to have his bollocks for this bit. "At work."

*

"Oh, Draco," Pansy sighs happily. "I've always admired your cheek. Others might call it a self-destructive tendency but you know I love a scandal." She lifts her cup as if to toast him.

"Well? Details, darling."

*

“Fuck you,” Draco mutters, and sits back down in his chair. "We were in the lift together this morning, and it stopped working. Some fucking imbecile brought a Muggle mobile into the hospital under Concealment Charms and it Stifled everything from the third floor up."

*

"The lift!" Pansy echoes, startled into further laughter. Merlin, she could murder him for putting his job at risk that way but the whole thing is so deliciously lurid. "You complete slut, Draco Malfoy. Fucking Potter in a stalled lift. Tell me, did it take more or less than half an hour?"

*

"I am not, and fuck you some more, you absolute horror. That's _not_ what happened. I had no intention of shagging Potter, I assure you. It's just that it got quite stuffy in the lift. What with it being stalled. Potter took off his robes and I happened to, you know, observe that he was. Excited by my presence. Once again."

*

" _Once again_?" Oh, it gets more delicious by the minute. "When was the first time?"

*

Fuck, he's an idiot. Twelve hours with blue bollocks and no sleep is clearly starting to take it's toll on him. "Stop _laughing_ at my misfortune. It's unbecoming. I had dinner with Granger and the Weasel the other night, and Potter was there. Naturally, he was enraptured by the way I've grown into my fabulous looks, and I happened to notice. And, you know, point it out. Don't enfeeble me for not telling you earlier. You've been bloody busy this week."

*

It's true, of course, she _has_ been busy this week. Terribly so. However, as far as gossip goes, this is of the essential variety.

"I'll spare you only because Blaise will enfeeble you himself when you tell him about all of this," she says. "And by the way, Draco, _dinner_ with Granger and Weasel? Very bougie." She grimaces a bit, imagining the hovel they call home and all the associated smells. "So ... all right, Potter's got a hard on for you, completely unsurprising. You antagonised him, also unsurprising. This turned into a shag in the lift _how_?"

*

It was a tad bourgeois (or at least, it would have been without his tapenade), but Draco still feels slightly defensive when Pansy crinkles her nose. How horrifying. Still, he hasn't the time to fret the possibility of becoming an ally to _Granger_ right now.

"It _is_ unsurprising, isn't it? Thank you, Pans. Yes, so, we're in the lift, and Potter is tragically hard over the stunning aesthetics of my exterior, and through no fault of my own — don't _look_ at me like that, I'm being serious — we ended up. Slightly pinned against the wall."

*

Pansy believes that some fault likely lies with Potter — he's a hot-headed moron and probably has very little control over his urges. She also believes that _most_ of the fault probably lies with Draco. Five years on from Hogwarts they might be but she would have bet a large sum of Galleons that Draco fell seamlessly back into his old habits the moment they were in the same room.

She rolls her eyes. Magically pinned to the wall, of course. "And? Did he fumble through it like an oaf? How big is he? Details, Draco, how many times do I have to ask?"

*

Draco rolls his right back. Pansy is tragically predictable. "You're a pervert, I hope you know. And don't be so fucking offensive. My cock is very precious to me, and no one who could be described as either 'fumbling' _or_ 'oafish' shall ever get within five feet of it. You should know that," Draco says.

"As for the size —" here he sniffs loftily "— I didn't see it, per se. More felt it. And before you ask, _again_ , it was average. Slightly above, perhaps. It was quite the stretch, but I'm sure that's only because there wasn't adequate lubrication available to us. In the lift."

*

As if it's news she's a pervert, like she hadn't been demanding thoroughly detailed accounts of his and Blaise's escapades with unabashed relish for _years_. When she's drunk she likes to admit to them how grateful she is to have two such filthy and promiscuous best mates.

And what a promiscuous picture Draco is painting.

"Let me see if I have this right," she says with a grin that feels as feral as it probably looks. "Potter pinned you face-first to the wall of a stalled lift in your place of work and then fucked you without lube?"

*

Draco clears his throat. "He rimmed me first. And don't get too bloody excited. He only had time for one go at it before the lift started moving."

*

"One go?" Pansy repeats, losing steam before she can properly get excited — as he'd warned. "You mean, like, one round, yes?"

*

"No, you complete and utter twit. One _thrust_."

*

Pansy lets out a laugh of disbelief that quickly loses its humour. "You aren't serious," she says. And suddenly Draco's foul temper is beginning to make more sense. "Oh ... my god, did you not finish somewhere else?"

*

"I was at _work_ ," Draco hisses.

*

"So, what," she says in disbelief, "he pulled out and you went your separate fucking ways? You started, you may as well have finished!"

*

Draco bangs a hand on Pansy's desk, which earns him a stern look. "My point exactly. Of course, Potter was far too concerned with being seen and losing some of that glorious moral superiority he so likes to lord over us all. Like he hasn't got his fucking dark sides. Which does remind me, Pansy dearest, of perhaps the most interesting thing I discovered during our little interlude."

*

Pansy keeps a deliberately straight face, but she realises suddenly he's just revealed (finally) the heart of the matter: Potter rejected him. In his mind, at least. The lift started moving and Potter jolted back to reality where he didn't fancy getting caught with his cock up Draco Malfoy's arse in a hospital.

She wants to question him about it more but is intrigued against her will by his little hook.

"Oh?" she says. "More interesting than his above average prick?"

*

"Slightly," Draco corrects. "Slightly above average. And yes, I would say so. He's one of your sort, Pans."

*

She rolls her eyes again. And finds herself suddenly extremely curious about the actual size of Potter's cock.

"My sort?" she drawls. "What, a lesbian?"

*

"Yes," Draco deadpans. "Potter's a lesbian, and the real reason he pulled out so abruptly is because he caught sight of my cock and went immediately flaccid. No, you fucking idiot, he's— shit. Let me put it this way — and don't laugh, or I'll tell Blaise you were the one who got Kahlúa on his mesh top — he got me to say _please_."

*

 _Oh_. A delightful plot twist.

"Potter," she says, leaning forward and arching a brow at him. " _Potter_ , with time for one thrust, made you beg for it." She's reluctantly impressed, not least of all because Draco's a stubborn brat when he feels like it. "You're sure it was him?"

*

“It wasn’t when he was fucking me,” says Draco, and he’s getting especially snippy in the way he always does when he’s tired. “By that stage, I was already sort of— actually no, for fucks sake, Pansy. I didn’t _beg_. I said please. Once. That’s just good etiquette when someone’s about to lick you out, is it not?”

*

“I see,” Pansy teases. “So there was foreplay. And with no kissing? That’s interesting.” She leans back in her chair again, utterly fascinated. Clearly Potter had tapped into that part of Draco Pansy had only actually witnessed once (on a very memorable, very treasured occasion) and heard about in spades. Usually he’s not so defensive about it, but it is _Potter_ who’d gotten him there. “So he dommed you into a pathetic little cock drunk daze and then left you hard and wanting, did he? Poor Draco, you deserve better, darling.” She smirks. “What’s the plan, then? Jump him at _his_ place of work?”

*

“Could you not be so fucking cavalier about this?” Draco snaps, standing once again. “The _plan_ is to go home, pull off, take several quarts of Dreamless Sleep, and start brainstorming prospects for new best friends. Goodnight.”

*

“Draco, no,” Pansy says quickly, shooting up from her chair to grab his arm and feeling bad suddenly, especially when it’s shaken off. “Come on, you know I’m only teasing you, why are you so worked up about this?”

*

"Because," Draco says, trying to grit it out but whining it instead. "It's _Potter_."

*

Pansy scoffs and rolls her eyes. “ _So_? Since when has having sex with someone ever meant you had to like them? Clearly you enjoyed whatever he did to you,” she says with a lifted brow. “Yes, if you were _mooning_ over him I’d have to hit you round the back of the head but seeing as it‘s only your cock that’s interested I must insist you finish what you started. You’d rather let him get away with this, is that it?”

*

"Christ, don't be vile, Pans. As if I'd ever go moony eyed over King Pleb. And do you really think I don't know that? I've fucked McLaggen, and that was only because he's got a Beater's bat for a fucking prick. That's not the problem."

*

Ah, yes. She remembers well the story of McLaggen’s Beater bat but under the circumstances keeps the smirk off her face. “Then what, pray tell, is the problem, Draco? Be a big boy and get off with him, if we’re lucky you’ll break his heart while you’re at it and we can laugh about it for a few weeks.”

*

He scoffs. As if Potter would give his precious little bleeding Gryffindor heart to anyone of Draco's sort. Potter thinks he's, what was it? Evil's pathetic little sideshow? 

"Yes," Draco says. "What an absolute scream that would be. The _problem is_ , Pansy, that I shouldn't have let him see me like that. I shouldn't have— fuck, I shouldn't be able to make my own decisions. You make them for me. Actually, no — you'd abuse your power far too much, you fucking sadist. If only Blaise weren't such an idiot, I could make him do it. "

*

"Blaise would just rent you out at his club to anyone willing to pay enough," Pansy says dismissively. It's what he does to _her_ , only Pansy very much enjoys it when she has the time. She sits down again and gestures for Draco to do the same. "I don't know what you mean, _let him see you that way_. It's not as if you're baring your soul to him, darling, you're just having sex. As much as it pains to me believe Potter is ... _adept_ at fucking, I'm much more concerned with you enjoying yourself for a few minutes. When was the last time you had a good dicking, Draco, _really?_ I’d be happy to give you one if you’re that opposed to Potter of course."

*

Of course, Pansy wouldn't understand. Draco himself doesn't quite understand. He just knows that wanting Potter in any capacity leaves him vulnerable, and vulnerability is something that should always be avoided in dealings with ones enemies.

Draco can't articulate this any more eloquently than he can think it, so he says, "You have a beautiful way with words, my love. _A good dicking._ It's not been that long. Not long enough for me to go begging to Potter, certainly. And for last time, — you, once again, _pervert_ — no. You and your depraved strap aren't getting within ten feet of my arse."

*

Pansy smiles lasciviously. "It's always worth a try," she says. "It's in my desk if you change your mind." And, returning to the point, "Anyway, it isn't about begging — well, it _is_ , but that's different. It's about getting off. Ever heard of hate sex? Potter could take out all that Gryffindorian moral outrage on you. In fact," she grins again, "I might be persuaded to pay you a healthy sum of gold to watch that memory a few times."

*

"D'you think you could quell your hard on for me for just a tick, Pans? Fucking _listen_. I'm not going anywhere near Potter and his mediocre cock ever. Again," says Draco vehemently. He means it, he really does. Despite the fact that he'd sort of, er, goaded Potter into fucking him in the first place (which Pansy really doesn't need to know), he's adamant that it won't happen again. 

"I'll admit, I may have been inclined towards a rematch while in my — what did you call it? 'Pathetic little cock drunk daze'? Thanks for that, by the way. But I promptly righted myself. I could very easily spill a drink on some sod at Venus and get him riled up enough for a rough go at it in the bathrooms, and I can also do _very much_ without hate sex from someone who actually thinks I'm wicked to the core, thank you very much. I do still have _some_ dignity."

*

With a small sigh, Pansy does listen. She's _been_ listening, actually, but this time she refrains from any teasing or talk of casual fucking. She knows Draco's having a very real internal struggle over this and she wishes more than anything she could do something concrete to help, but there isn't much short of paying Potter off to either corner Draco and fuck him or disappear to another country.

She rolls her eyes at his contemptuous repetition of _cock drunk daze_ , knowing _he_ knows she'd meant it entirely as an endearment, and when he's finished ranting says, "You need to stop equating dignity with sex, Draco. There's nothing _un_ dignified about fucking, ever. Now ... I don't _want_ to shine a _Lumos_ in your face like this, darling, but you've been sitting here arguing with me about Potter for —" she checks her watch, a slim, diamond-encrusted number from Paris "— twenty minutes now, so either you're intentionally trying to keep me from ever going home or you're waiting to be convinced to fuck Potter." She takes out her wand and flicks it, causing their teacups to fly back to the tray, empty of contents. "I say do it. Obviously. Blaise will too. But if you really can't, then put him out of your mind altogether. All right? Just please don't resurrect the I-Hate-Potter club. We're too old."

*

"Fine." Draco hates the way Pansy makes everything sound so simple. Fuck him or don't. He says, "You were a piss weak treasurer, anyway. And Blaise never came to any of the meetings."

*

She could hit him, really. But that's Draco. "Yes, well, it was a time-consuming hobby," she says, beginning to organise the papers on her desk and file them away. "And you were always much more passionate about the cause than either of us. I'd say your enthusiasm was rivaled only by darling little Ginevra Weasley." She stands up from her desk and _Accios_ her cloak. "Come, let's go get drunk at my flat. Maybe Blaise will join us, I'm sure he'd be happy to give you a quick fuck."

*

"Yes," Draco says wearily, joining Pansy at the Floo. "I'm sure he would."

* * *

Work, following the _incident_ , managed to actually be worse than anticipated thanks to some clown in Kent putting Muggles under the Imperius Curse. His head was so far out of the game that said clown got Harry with a Stunner when he and Terry Boot (his partner) ambushed him. It hadn't mattered — Terry took him down smoothly and Harry got nothing worse than a bruise on his leg and his ego.

Malfoy was the problem, and continues to _be_ the problem, which is why, on Friday afternoon, after nearly a week of angry wanking and snapping at people and drowning in guilt (and, truthfully, just feeling sort of _sad_ about the whole thing), he goes to see Ron. Who, yeah, is sort of really biased about Malfoy and might really, literally, non-metaphorically vomit, but it's somehow better than the extreme enthusiasm and support he'd get from Hermione. He's simply not ready for her brand of validation at the moment.

She's at work, thankfully. Ron's home with the baby, which works to Harry's advantage since Ron can't throttle him or whatever if he's holding his kid.

"So I didn't _actually_ just come to spy on you for Hermione," Harry says, hopping up onto the kitchen table while Ron goes about putting together a bottle for Rose. "I have to ... confess to something, I think."

*

Ron's only been half listening to Harry's work-rant, one ear trained on the door to make sure Rosie isn't fussing too much from her bassinet in the living room. However, he's learnt from bitter experience that when Harry says he has a confession to make, it's usually something he should give his full attention. Plus, you know. He'll need to concentrate if he's to give Hermione the full report she'll definitely request.

"You haven't shagged another one of my siblings, have you?" Ron says, and is horrifically reminded of that time Harry sat him down and told him, with much erring and apologising, that he was fucking his brother. "Is it Percy? For fucks sake. It's starting to get a little incestuous, don't you think mate?"

*

"No, Ron," Harry says drily, "I'm not fucking Percy. Thanks." He despises the fact that Ron has just unknowingly referenced something he and Malfoy talked about in the lift. In fact he despises this whole situation, plus the dig about fucking a bunch of Weasleys. It's been two, which is literally less than thirty percent of them. "I don't know if it's necessarily _better_ than that, though. Erm — it was Malfoy, actually. Got stuck with him in a lift at Mungo's when the Stifling happened." He pauses, sheepishly scratching the back of his head, and takes advantage of Ron's shocked silence to add, "We didn't finish, though. That's something, right?"

*

"Harry," Ron says, very quietly, once recovered from his stupor. "You know how they say babies are a lot of work? Like, the hardest thing you'll ever do?"

*

"Yeah ..." Harry says slowly, blinking at him.

*

Ron says, and really means it, "Yeah, well, Rosie is a fucking _picnic_ compared to you. Merlin's fucking bollocks, Harry. _Malfoy?_ "

He might chunder. He might literally throw up. Harry's always been tragically adept at picking the most ill-advised prospects possible (what with Cho being recently widowed, Ginny otherwise occupied and the sister of his best friend, Charlie in Romania for most of the year, and also, once again, _related to Ron_. And, of course, his last girlfriend. Who was a bint.) But still, Malfoy is another level.

*

"Yeah, _Malfoy_ ," he says sarcastically, and he rolls his eyes. "And like I said, we didn't finish, so. I dunno." He keeps coming back to that, like it means something. They didn't finish. It can't _count_ if you don't finish, can it? "Also, I didn't kiss him or anything. It was so ..." he shakes his head, lets out a quiet, tired laugh, "like, afterwards, it felt like it hadn't even happened. I mean ..." _Besides the day-long erection._ "You know what I mean." He didn't. Couldn't, really. "I just can't stop ... thinking about it? But that's why I'm telling you. That's how atonement works, right? You confess, it goes away?"

*

"Yeah, only now I'm traumatised," Ron says. Sulks. "Please tell me he's at least like, fuck, got a really small prick or something. Actually, don't. Bloody don't. No details, ever, and you can give Rose her bottle. I need my hands so I can start pulling my hair out."

*

With a small sigh, Harry hops down from the table, grabs the bottle, and goes to get Rose from the other room. He'd known Ron wouldn't be any help — it's _why_ he'd decided on him. Because he would do exactly this, act grossed out and make fun of it and remind Harry how stupid the whole thing is, and how much it doesn't matter. Still doesn't explain why it feels unresolved.

Ron's hair is still in tact when he goes back into the kitchen, Rose now happily suckling on the bottle Harry's holding for her. "How disastrous would it be, d'you think, if I fucked him again? Properly, though, like, just to get it out of my system, right?"

*

Ron really wishes Hermione were here. She's a Healer; she could examine Harry and see if that scar of his has somehow seeped Dark Magic into his brain and cursed him to act the complete dick for the rest of his life.

"Extremely," he says. "Very very. Harry, _no_."

*

Right. A hard no. The obvious answer. Obviously.

"I kind of want to, though."

*

Ron thunks his head against the kitchen cupboard. “Bloody hell, Harry.”

*

"What's so bad about it?" he asks, a tad defensively. "It's not like I'm trying to date him or anything, I just wanna finish what we started. He was so ..." God. _Submissive_. Harry decides not to use that word out loud. "Plus, I sort of ..." He shrugs as best he can while holding Rose. Grimaces. "I ran out on him a bit. He was pretty upset. I feel kind of shit about it."

*

"Well I don't," Ron says. "Harry, Malfoy's been a shit to you as long as you've known him. To us, too. I know Hermione likes him, and for her sake I'll try my best with him, but Merlin, she's a better person than I am, forgiving all the things he's done. It still makes my blood boil, you know? The way he used to talk to her. To you, too."

He turns to lean against the counter, and gestures for Harry to pass Rose over to him. Says, a little gruffly, "Love you, mate. Support you whatever you do, yeah? But you don't deserve to be treated like shit, and if Malfoy's still doing that, I'll never think it's a good idea for you to get involved with him."

*

It's not what he wants to hear, Harry realises. Which ... at least that's illuminating. And he can't help smiling a little as Ron takes Rose from him, because shit, he really picked the right compartment on the train that day twelve years ago.

"I'm not getting involved with him," he says. From the fridge he grabs a beer and tosses the cap into the bin a little too roughly. "And I'm not forgiving him for anything that he hasn't apologised for. But I do think he's grown up, all right?" He pauses, then says, "He's got this belly button ring."

*

"Bloody bullshit, Harry," Ron scoffs, covering Rosie's pink little ears. "When have you ever been able to shag someone without it getting complicated? And don't say Charlie, because you know that's different. And did I not say no details? Now I'm not going to be able to look at the git without seeing you licking his fucking piercing, or something. Gross. Fucking gross."

*

Harry laughs, but it's a pained, tired laugh. A little hysterical, too. "Grow up, would you?" he says. "And I didn't lick it." Why hadn't he licked it?

He chugs half the beer and then presses it to his cheek, which is too warm.

"And I _wasn't_ going to say Charlie, I realise that's different. I also think _Malfoy_ is different. There's zero chance of complication. It's impossible. I can't stand him."

*

Ron sighs. Mumbles, “Sorry, darling,” when he jostles Rose so he can sit on the bench. 

“It’s your decision, mate. I think it’s a bad idea. Hermione’ll go spare if she finds out I discouraged you, though. Whatever. Just be careful. I still don’t trust him, alright?”

*

"I don't trust him either," says Harry. "I just wanna finish fucking him so I can quit thinking about it."

* * *

"Potter's over there," Pansy says when they walk into the pub, and sounds so happy about it that Draco wants to hex her. And Granger. Actually, he thinks he'd rather prefer strangling her with that bushel she calls a ponytail. It'd be more cathartic. _"Come to Friday night drinks, Draco. It'll be fun, Draco."_ Conniving wretch.

At least he'd the foresight to bring Pansy with him.

Draco says, "Fuck Granger. We're going."

"Don't be silly, Draco," says Pansy. "We shan't be displaced by the great unwashed."

"Yes, we shall."

"No, we shalln't. I'm going to talk to Potter. He's become much more interesting as of late."

Draco grabs her arm. Pansy slaps his hand with her heaviest ring, but he holds on. "Unhand me, Draco."

"No," Draco hisses. "I understand this is all very amusing to you, but I can guarantee it'll be significantly less so once I've literally murdered you in cold blood."

"Will you relax, darling?" Pansy says, and delivers a neat little Stinging Hex to Draco's knuckles so he curses and releases her. "I just want a quick chat. It's been an awfully long time since I've caught up with any of the old crowd."

*

“This guy went down like a sack o’ potatoes,” Terry wheezes, banging the tabletop with his palm. Ron’s in tears as well. Harry sips his beer through pursed lips. “Sorry, mate,” Terry slings an arm round Harry’s shoulders and punches his arm, which is holding his beer, which sloshes over the rim and onto his shirt. “You shoulda seen the look on your face when you ate shit, that’s all.” 

“I was distracted,” Harry defends himself sulkily. Pushes Terry off him. “You’re such a prat, I’m letting you die next time you fumble your wand.”

“Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss, Harry,” Hermione chuckles. “Drink your beer.”

“Can’t,” Harry says, “Boot spilled it all over me.”

“Buy you another,” says Terry. “You need it.” He gets up and goes over to the bar where Harry suspects he also wants to flirt with the girl behind it. 

“Oh, shit,” says Ron suddenly, looking past Harry’s shoulder. “Harry ...”

“What —”

“Don’t look,” Ron says quickly, but too late. Harry turns and looks and sees Pansy fucking Parkinson sauntering towards them like some kind of nightmare in back lipstick come to life. 

“Potter,” she says jovially. Her heels come to a clicking halt beside him. “Granger. Weasel. Lovely ... really lovely. You’ve all been well, I hope?”

Hermione looks a little puzzled but hesitantly pleased. Ron is clearly terrified. Harry searches the pub for only two seconds before he finds Malfoy’s white blond head and mouths a furious _what the fuck_ at him.

"You came with Draco and the others?" Hermione says to Pansy, which, _what_? He looks at Malfoy again and realises he recognises one or two faces from the Spell Damage ward where he and Hermione work. And not that he expects her to warn him whenever Malfoy will be around or anything silly (pathetic) like that, but a warning that Malfoy would be around would have been _really_ nice.

He looks at Ron to determine whether _he_ had known about this and decides he hadn't. Although Harry's suddenly suspicious about his secret having been shared with Hermione.

"Oh, I forced _him_ to come," Pansy says, all tinkling laughter and dark eyes. "We don't do pubs as a rule —" she gestures around vaguely "— sort of bourgeois, don't you think? I told him he _must_ introduce me to some of his brilliant colleagues and reacquaint himself with London, though, it's been far too long since we were here. Anyway. Potter." Her attention turns to him and Harry tenses up, meeting her gaze steadily and hoping she can't taste his uncertainty in the air. Like a demon. Her dark eyes travel the length of his torso and back up. "I hear your talents extend beyond the battlefield. We should talk technique sometime."

Harry stares at her, part confused and part horrified. "Pardon?" he says.

"Well it isn't easy to get Draco to beg," she says in a low, conspiratorial voice. Harry actually feels lightheaded suddenly. He can't look at Ron or Hermione. "Believe me, I've tried. You must be good. I'm quite good myself — it's an innate thing, don't you think? Either you can dom or you can't."

Well. That settles that: he can sit here no longer.

"Excuse me," he says.

He ignores Ron's sharp look when he gets up from the barstool he's sat at and heads over towards Malfoy and the front of the pub, gesturing with his head to the door in a wordless request (or demand, maybe that's a better word) to join him.

"You told her?" he says loudly the second Malfoy steps through the door into the blistering cold. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

*

Draco sniffs and gives a delicate shrug, but inside his hatred of Potter has taken up residence in his stomach as some kind of wriggling, thrashing thing. The slovenly hypocrite; it's obvious he's told the Weasel — he took one look at Draco's abdomen and winced as if he were having a flashback.

"Of course. I didn't realise our little tryst was to be kept so hush-hush."

*

"He didn't realise," Harry says to a stranger passing them, who gives Harry a look that is both recognition (he can't go _anywhere_ in this fucking city) and ambivalence. "Yeah, Malfoy. It was supposed to be kept _hush-hush_. That was the fucking point of putting our robes back on, you complete twat."

*

Draco snorts. "You're completely right, Potter. Telling my closest friend, with whom I share everything — and I do mean everything — is indeed much the same as broadcasting our private affairs to the entire Wizarding public. Bravo, to your persuasive abilities, for you've convinced me of my wrongdoings, and I prostrate myself before you in apology. Twat. I'm going back inside."

*

"We're not finished," Harry says, and before he can think properly about it he grabs Malfoy's wrist to stop him. The second he does it he lets go again, horrified, although he tries not to let that show on his face. "Your _closest friend_ has the loudest fucking mouth I've ever seen," he continues in a lower voice. "She's the same one who tried to sell me out to Voldemort, remember that? You really had to tell _her_? Fucking ..." He huffs out a frustrated breath. Pushes a hand through his hair. "Look. I was gonna ... come see you. Or something. Now she's making this big fucking thing out of it."

*

Draco himself is often (right now) of the opinion that Pansy's a wretched harpy, but his mouth still curls into a snarl when Potter insults her. "Oh?" he says, voice dripping in derision. "And what, pray tell, were you going to say to me during this visit?"

*

That's the question, really. It's why Harry still _hasn't_ gone to see him. It's why he's so thoroughly ticked off about this, because he'd needed a lot more time to try and figure out what to say.

"I dunno," he says honestly. "Jesus, do I look like I fucking know? I feel bad about ... what happened." God, he's, like, twelve years old, can't even say the fucking words. "I shouldn't've left you like that. And _you_ shouldn't've goaded me into it in the first place, by the way, on a goddamn _lift_ , you psycho."

*

Like that. _Like that_. "Potter, I don't give a fucking toss. I was _fine_. I didn't need you to stick around and brush my hair, or whatever. If you're apologising, don't. Fucking don't," Draco says. As for the goading, well. He supposes he is rather guilty of that. Serves Potter right.

*

"Why d'you have to be so fucking prickly?" Harry snaps. He doesn't actually know why he's so angry. Well, no, he _does_. It's because he's incredibly horny for Malfoy and had gotten it in his head he might be able to fuck him properly next time they saw each other, on _Harry's_ terms, definitely not like this, and that prospect is looking thin now. Plus he's reminded that Malfoy is the fucking worst and no amount of begging and whinging with a cock up his arse can change that. "We're gonna have to see each other, you realise that, right? Since you've decided to be mates with Hermione?"

*

Draco says, "I can do without the pleasure of Granger's company outside the workplace if it means avoiding you. Inside of it too, perhaps, after tonight. You do realise she enticed us here in the hopes of some jovial festivities? Merlin, must all the women in my life be so fucking conspiratorial?"

*

Wait. "What?" Harry says, brought up short by this suggestion. "No, she ... what are you talking about? She doesn't know, I only told ..." Ron. That fucking berk. "Look. No one _enticed me_ into doing anything, I come here all the time. Sure you weren't hoping to run into me? Pretty good bet I'd be wherever Hermione was going."

*

"Yes, I guessed that much, you whited sepulchre. Plaster saint," Draco says. He was jesting (sort of) before, but now he's really feeling the bloodlust. _Of course_ the Weasel would've told Granger. She's no better than Pansy. "And, no, Potter, as you're not an employee of St Mungo's, I had no fucking clue you'd be here tonight. If I had, I wouldn't have come. Or I'd at least have brought a bucket. Are we done?"

*

Because he's a fucking pervert, apparently, Harry drops his gaze to Malfoy's stomach, as if he'd be able to see the navel ring through his clothes, and then lifts them again to those chilly grey eyes he remembers looking round and pleading last week in the lift. He wishes more than ever that he'd let them finish, that he'd gotten it out of his system then and there. "Sure," he says flatly. "Whatever you want, Malfoy."

*

"Splendid," Draco says, and lets the door close in Potter's face when he goes back inside.


	4. The Requital

When Hermione got pregnant in the same month that she was promoted, there really wasn't time to worry about Harry anymore. Ron said it would be a good thing. That at some point, she had to stop making him colour-coded calendars and guides for self care, and let him figure things out for himself a bit. Hermione disagreed. Then Rose came, and she didn't have a choice.

Babies are significantly more work when they're outside of you, she's found, even with the several months paternity leave Ron's taken from the shop. Hermione is very, very happy, but she's also tired a lot, and stressed a lot, and no longer wishes to spend the precious little free time she has fretting over Harry, who is now very much a functioning adult.

Then Ron told her he and Draco had an _interaction_ during the Stifling. That was pretty much all he could get out without gagging. Hermione hadn't pushed it, rather just neglected to mention to either of them that the other would probably be appearing at the pub on Friday night.

Naturally, Draco was a bit cross with her about that come Monday morning. Harry, too. To be expected. What Hermione didn't expect was what Draco told her over biscuits in the tea room on Thursday afternoon, when he'd finally emerged from his strop (though, Hermione suspects it had more to do with the Jaffa Cakes she offered him than genuine forgiveness).

She'd asked, concentrating very hard on not blushing, and as tactfully as she could, whether he'd arranged to see Harry again any time soon. Draco stood up, announced that no, he wouldn't, because he didn't feel that a rough and angry not-even-a-proper-fuck in a stalled lift, following which their only interaction had been a brief and very snippy conversation, constituted a proper courtship, nicked half the packet, and left. Sulking once more.

Hermione decided she'd probably need to have a little chat with Harry about the whole thing.

*

It's been relatively quiet since the trouble in Kent, which is probably good in terms of him not getting himself into further trouble because he can't fucking focus, but he also despises sitting around and doing nothing. Days like this, he and Terry usually wind up throwing a Quaffle between them with the Wireless on. Harry's got his feet up on the desk, proving highly detrimental when the door opens suddenly and he fumbles Terry's last pass, also resulting in him kicking papers everywhere.

"Jesus, Hermione," Harry says as he rights himself and Terry dissolves into laughter. He chucks the Quaffle at him, which shuts him up. "I mean, hi. All right?"

*

Perhaps not as much of a functioning adult as Hermione had thought. “Fine, Harry. Hello, Terry. How are you?”

Terry snorts back a few laughs and says, “Yeah, good, thanks. How’s bubs?”

“Lovely, thanks.” Yeah, not really, but Hermione suspects Terry doesn’t really want to hear about Rosie’s reverse cycling so late in the day.

She gives Harry a stern look and says to Terry, “Would you mind popping out for a second? I need a quick chat with Harry.”

*

Harry's good humour deflates like a sad little balloon. A chat, sure. More like a lecture, the subject of which is anyone's guess.

"Wouldn't mind a bit," Terry says too quickly. "Coffee, Harry?"

"Sure," Harry mutters.

When the door closes behind him, Harry looks up at Hermione ambivalently from his chair, feeling a lot like he's fourteen and facing McGonagall.

"What've I done?"

*

At least Harry’s keeping up.

“It’s about Draco, Harry.”

*

Harry's stomach drops. He swallows, stares at her for a long second, and then says, trying to be casual about it, "What about him?"

*

Despite what Harry and Ron might think, Hermione really doesn’t enjoy dishing out a scolding, unless it’s incompetent Ministry officials from one of the various boards she serves on at the receiving end. She does it because she cares, and because if she left Ron and Harry to their own devices, they’d let each other get away with everything. “He told me what happened between you last Tuesday,” she says, and leans forward on his desk. “Harry, how could you?”

*

"How could I _what_?" Harry says defensively. His head is spinning, to be fucking frank: what world, he wonders, is Malfoy living in where he finds the bollocks to go behind his back to his own best friend? "What the hell did he tell you?"

*

“I believe the words ‘rough’ and ‘angry’ were used. He also told me you fought on Friday night.”

*

"What the fuck," he says, standing up and trying to ignore the warmth in his cheeks. "Are you kidding me, Hermione, why are you talking to Malfoy about this? And what the hell do you care if it's 'rough and angry'?" The words are heavy with sarcasm. "Aren't you the one always talking about validating sex or what the fuck ever? This has _nothing_ to do with you."

*

“Don’t _yell_ at me, Harry, please. Of course, you’re an adult, how you conduct your affairs is entirely your business. But when it comes to Draco, I think I have the right to be more than a little concerned. You’ve always been self-destructive around him. I didn’t say anything when Ron told me about the two of you because, call it wishful thinking, I’d hoped you may have at least tried to be more constructive before entering into a sexual relationship together. From what Draco said, that’s clearly not the case.”

*

"Oh my god." Harry drops his face into his hands, sick, physically _sick_ , to his stomach. He might retch. It's possible. He presses his fingers into his forehead, rubs at his scar in a gesture so ingrained it's as if his brain thinks it'll still help with headaches.

It's just that _you've always been self-destructive around him_ is kind of a sledgehammer of a fucking statement.

"We haven't 'entered into a sexual relationship,' Hermione," he says loudly. Christ, is she _really_ making him do this? Really? "We hardly even had sex, alright? Have you considered the possibility that he's embellishing things to be a twat? And I'm not _self-destructive_ around him, so you can fuck off with that. What does that even _mean_?"

*

Heat rushes to Hermione's cheeks. "Oh, spare me, Harry. I thought we'd talked through this denial of the way you behaved in sixth year, and yes, I know, you were right about that in the end, but that doesn't mean it wasn't worrying watching you neglect literally everything else in your life to run around after Draco. You lose your head around him. Don't waste both of our time by denying it."

*

Mid-rant, when the words _sixth year_ comes up, Harry throws his hands in the air with a muttered “fucking Christ” and he drops back into his chair. She’s barely got the last of her words out when he says, “I’m not denying anything! If you’re suggesting I’m going to start neglecting the rest of my life to prowl around London after Malfoy like we’re back at Hogwarts then, honestly, I’m kind of fucking offended, alright? I mean,” he laughs, humourless and just this side of self-deprecating, “fuck, it’s just _Malfoy_." He scrubs his hands over his face, feels the heavy stubble of ... four days without shaving? Five? “I can handle this myself. Don’t you have a child now that you can lecture? And a husband?”

*

"Don't," Hermione says sharply. "Don't imply I'm doing this as some kind of frivolous way to blow off steam. Excuse me if I think you've had enough of toxic relationships in your lifetime, Harry. Draco said you called him _evil_. I would be so, so pleased if the two of you were able to get along, you know that, but I worry that you're entering into this thing when there's still far too much hatred between you. Harry, it's unhealthy."

*

“So what?” Harry fires back, but he’s losing steam. The thing is, he knows she’s got a point, even if he doesn’t like it. But there’s more to it, too. He just doesn’t know how to articulate it. “I’m not trying to have a relationship with him, Hermione. It’s sex. And, by the way, he called _himself_ evil. I only said—" He sighs. Feels his cheeks heat again. “I said he was ... evil’s sideshow. But I only meant he’s _not_ evil, he knows that! I don’t hate him, I haven’t hated him since we were sixteen.”

*

Hermione's face softens. "I know. I know that, Harry. And I know how much you and Ron hate it when I talk about sexual health and all that, but you have to know that though it might not be a romantic relationship, it's still a relationship of sorts when it's with someone with yours and Draco's kind of history. You've got to recognise that." She sits down in the chair opposite Harry's. He's looking a bit sulkily into his lap, and she studies his face imploringly. "You know, it was really hard watching you go through all that stuff with Natalie. For a bit, it was just like after the war. It's awful, seeing you like that. But you've done so well to help yourself since then. I just care about you. So much. I don't want to see you do something that will jeopardise that."

*

As usual, mention of Nat makes Harry’s gut twist painfully. And it’s not just her, not just their completely failed relationship: it’s uncomfortable, hearing Hermione talk about him like this, like he’s fragile or something. Even worse because she and Ron are so ... stupidly _perfect_. He wonders sometimes if he’s fucked in the head and incapable of anything healthy like that. 

“This isn’t like that, Hermione,” he says a little gruffly, not meeting her eyes. “You’re making it into something it’s not. I know you’re just worried about me, I get it, and I’m grateful, but I’m not delicate. And I’m not getting involved with Malfoy.” He lifts his gaze to her again. “Okay?”

*

Hermione nods. “Okay. Yes, good.” She supposes Harry has a point. She does have a tendency to revert back to that fretful mindset whenever she hears he’s done something reckless. It’s a hard thing to shake. 

“And you’re right. You’re not delicate. You know it’s okay to be, though?”

*

“Yes,” he says quietly. Not because he believes it, but because Hermione does, and he doesn’t feel like hearing about all the reasons why it’s okay for him to still, five years later, be working through all the leftover trauma. “I don’t hate him, Hermione.”

*

“Okay, Harry,” Hermione says, because while she does trust that Harry’s more careful now than he used to be, and definitely more mature, she’s not quite sure she believes him about not hating Draco after Sunday night’s display. He and Ron really were complete berks, at that dinner. Certainly it’s not the kind of proper, virulent loathing that drove him to do so many ridiculous things in school. Maybe something left over from that. “I don’t mean to scold, you know. I just get a bit hyper focused when I’m worried.”

*

He's known Hermione long enough — and been through enough shit with her — to know when she's humouring him. And that's fine: she can believe he hates Malfoy if she wants. He'd keep arguing it but he doesn't actually know what he _does_ feel, so the point seems rather moot. And he's tired. And pissed off, but that he's saving for Malfoy next time he sees him.

"Well there's nothing to worry about," he says. "Please, just ... don't talk to him about me, okay? It's weird and it'll drive me insane. And I promise _you_ I won't do anything stupid. Deal?"

*

"Yes, of course," says Hermione. "And you better not. Or I'll set Molly on you."

* * *

Technically he's not doing anything stupid. Yes, Hermione would probably classify it as such, but they hadn't discussed differing opinions on what constitutes 'stupid,' so as far as he's concerned he's in the clear. Anyway, if she hadn't wanted him confronting Malfoy about his treachery she should have known better than to tell him.

The longer he's thought about it, the angrier he's become. Telling Parkinson was shitty enough on its own, but to have given Hermione, _his_ friend, details that _he_ had chosen not to share with her ... it's insane. Completely fucking inappropriate. And he's got a terrible suspicion Malfoy did it just to be a shit head.

It's a little after ten PM when he Apparates to St Mungo's. He knows Hermione's home and he's relatively sure Malfoy's working. 

His stomach clenches horribly (anger, and other confusing things) when he finds him standing with a clipboard outside a room. Harry goes up to him, heart pumping, and he stays silent until Malfoy finishes what he's writing and looks up.

"Let's talk," Harry says. His tone is falsely light, suggesting that it won't stay that way long if Malfoy tries to argue.

*

"Potter," Draco says. He should've known a whole week couldn't pass without his peace being intruded upon by twerpy golden boys and their twerpy fucking ways. 

He's managed to put the whole affair largely out of his mind through an extremely effective regime of ignoring Granger, pelting Pansy with whatever he can reach whenever she brings it up, and engaging Blaise's services with a higher frequency than he has in months (if Draco can pretend that the erections he wakes up with in the mornings are the result of an excellent shagging from his best friend the night before, and not Potter pressing him against the wall of a lift, then he's very happy). 

It worked (sort of) until today, when Granger lured him in with Jaffa Cakes, and then asked him about Potter, as if they were fucking boyfriends, or something. He hadn't meant to snap at her like he had, but he supposes the whole thing still kind of rankles. The thought of Potter going around thinking Draco's all torn up over the abrupt way he'd halted proceedings makes him want to crawl out of his fucking skin. 

"If you need medical assistance, I'm afraid you'll have to check in with the Welcome Witch on the ground floor. Mind, she gets a little snippy this late in the eve."

* 

"Put the clipboard down, Malfoy," Harry says with deliberate calm, "and come have a chat with me."

*

Draco tucks his clipboard under his arm. "Is it a personal matter? If that's the case, you'll have to wait until I'm off the clock. Mungo's is awfully stingy when it comes to wasting paid time. You can take a seat in the waiting room, if you like. My shift finishes in six hours."

*

Right. That's that, then. Not bothering with his wand, Harry magically plucks the clipboard out from beneath Malfoy's arm and snatches it out of the air. On the other side of the corridor, he opens a door that doesn't have any patient information on the outside.

"This room looks empty," Harry says, heading over to it. "Shall we?"

*

Of all the fucking impertinence, cornering him in his place of work (while he's doing his fucking rounds, no less) has got to be the most egregious.

Draco says, and he can feel his cheeks colouring, "No, Potter, I don't think we shall. I've got shit to do — might come as a terrible shock, but not all of us can coast through on our reputations. I'll be taking my notes back, thanks."

*

The extra dig about coasting through life makes his grip on the clipboard tighten. He gestures again to the door, trying hard not to let his anger make him do anything stupid, but his voice still comes out sounding too much like he’s in an interrogation room with a criminal: “Get in the fucking room, Malfoy. Now. Don’t make me say it again.”

*

Draco crosses his arms, cocks his hip. Waits.

*

It’s shocking, really. Harry stares at him, angry and exasperated and guilty, and finally lets out a laugh of disbelief. He lifts his glasses, presses his fingers into his eyes. “All right. Fine. Sure. Let’s talk out here, then. D’you mind telling me what fucking planet you’re living on where it’s okay to discuss you and I _fucking_ with Hermione behind my back?”

*

Draco frowns. It's not what he expected. Certainly nothing worthy of Potter actively seeking him out like this. "I don't believe what I said to Granger really constitutes a discussion, Potter. She simply asked if I'd be seeing you again, and I said I wouldn't, and gave a brief explanation as to why."

*

“‘Rough and angry’?” Harry says sardonically. “That was part of your brief explanation, was it?”

*

Draco smirks. He really hadn't told Granger what he did to be contrary, but annoying Potter gives him the same thrill now as it did at eleven, so he decides he can believe what he will. "It was, rather. The three of you are so very close. I assumed they'd get all the finer details anyway. You told Weasely I had my navel pierced, no? You did have rather a vested interest in that particular little detail."

*

“Fuck you,” says Harry hotly. “I don't get this. I apologised before you even left. I’m so, _so_ sorry you’re so bitter I didn’t finish fucking you, truly I am, but I can’t just fuck people on lifts for the whole world to see. I asked you when you were off. You’re so fucking entitled, everything has to be when you want it to be, doesn’t it?”

*

Draco’s amused sneer curls into something sour before he can stop it. “I told you last time we spoke,” he says, “that I don’t give a fucking shit. You pulled out, I went home, I found someone else to finish the job. This is getting tedious, Potter.”

*

“Clearly you do give a shit,” Harry says loudly. He’s losing his grip on his temper, he can feel it happening. “Or you wouldn’t have made up whatever bullshit you told Hermione. You liked it, what I did in that lift, and you’re pissed off I saw you like that. Well get the fuck over it, Malfoy.” He takes a step forwards, hardly aware of another Healer walking towards them. “You would’ve let me do a lot more if we hadn’t stopped.”

*

The more Potter talks, the quicker the hot panic slides round Draco’s ribs, a dense creep of _no, stop_ that spikes when he sees Healer Spungen coming their way over Potter’s shoulder. This is what he hates, he hates it, and Pansy told him not to worry, that there’s nothing undignified or shameful about desire, that it was okay. But Draco’s always known that wanting leaves you vulnerable. If people know what you want, that you want them, their approval, then they can use it against you. Manipulate and control you. Draco doesn’t want to be controlled anymore.

He shoves Potter’s shoulder, hisses, “Get in here,” because he’s worked far too hard to have the tenuous respect he’s gained from his colleagues jeopardised by Potter and his loud fucking mouth.

*

Harry's bitterly vindicated when Malfoy finally shoves him into the empty room _he_ had been suggesting (demanding) they use for this little chat. And to be fucking fair, he'd _tried_ to do this nicely. He had.

"You know, this is on _you_ , Malfoy," Harry says as Malfoy closes the door, lowering his voice again so the Healer outside doesn't hear them. He's not a prick; he doesn't want Malfoy to lose his job. He doesn't _want_ any of this. "It didn't occur to you that Hermione didn't know anything because _I hadn't told her_? I didn't even give Ron those details, that was between _us_. Just because you and Parkinson have no boundaries to speak of doesn't mean we all have. And you can't even just fucking apologise, can you?"

*

The thing that stings a bit is the way Potter talks about Granger, like she’s his and his only. Yes, Granger is absolutely not Draco’s friend, but she kind of is, too. He can speak to her about what he fucking well pleases. Fuck Potter. Fuck. Him.

Draco says, "No."

*

Harry's stomach turns. Maybe he does hate him.

"You know what?" he says darkly, "Good. Five years, you haven't changed in the slightest. You're exactly the same, and I don't know why you're hiding it in front of Hermione but let me assure you of something: she _will_ eventually realise you're still the same pathetic, entitled, conniving little arsehole you've always been, because you can't keep that hidden for long. Clearly."

*

Draco's body goes taut. Potter's told him that before, at dinner on that first night they saw each other and again in the lift. That he hasn't changed, will never change. It's not true.

"Come off it, Potter," Draco snarls. "Do you really care if your best friends know that the fuck we had in a _stalled lift_ wasn’t lovely and soft and tender? I’m fairly certain they could’ve puzzled that one out for themselves, even the Weasel. No, for whatever reason, you can't seem to stay away, so you keep inventing these piss-weak causes to come and bother me. _Fuck off_."

*

"I'm not the one inventing things!" Harry yells before Malfoy's even gotten his last word out. He doesn't want to explain that whatever Malfoy had said to Hermione had caused her to use words like 'toxic' and 'unhealthy' and fret over his mental health, and it hadn't felt that way in the lift. Not lovely or tender, maybe, but at least _he_ , Harry, had thought it had been kind of intimate. Certainly not toxic. "No, I wouldn't expect anyone to believe we fucked _tenderly_. But it also wasn't the toxic shit show of an impression you gave Hermione. She thinks I'm—" He breaks off before he loses himself to a rant he doesn't want Malfoy to hear. "Don't fucking talk to her about me. _Ever_ , Malfoy. I'll fuck off when you get that through your inbred little pureblooded brain."

*

"I said two fucking sentences to her!" Draco shoots back, deciding to let the inbred comment go (mostly because it's, um, kind of true). "And they were statements of fact. Whatever Granger's inferred from that clearly has more to do with you than it does with me."

*

“No,” says Harry, ignoring the part of himself insisting Malfoy's right, he's got major fucking issues, he's a completely broken person, “ _you_ are the problem. You always have been. And it’s not even your fault — Lucius fucked you up good, didn’t he, Draco? Just don’t let him know you begged me for it. I bet he wouldn’t like that.”

*

Rage fills Draco at such a blinding speed that he makes a sound right from the back of his throat, and his teeth click, and his bones clatter with it, and he hates Potter more now than he ever did when he was beaten to the Snitch, or cut open on the bathroom floor.

Draco’s hand is moving before he realises it — he couldn’t stop it if he wanted to, which is good, because he doesn’t — towards Potter’s cheekbone, and if he’s lucky his wrist holster will gash open that tragic fucking scar on the follow through.

*

He's not on Auror mode, so Harry's a millisecond slow realising Malfoy's lifting his arm. But his reflexes have always been infallible — he catches his wrist before the slap lands, surprised and angry and somehow devastated.

"Really?" he says sharply. His grip is just tight enough so Malfoy would have a hard time pulling away, but not enough to really hurt. "You're gonna hit me, Malfoy? Did I strike a nerve?"

*

Draco makes a sound like a strangled Kneazle, and tries to wrench his hand from Potter’s grip. He can’t.

“Let me _fucking go_.”

*

“Tell me something first,” Harry says, keeping his grip locked and stepping closer. “If it’s not because I didn’t let us finish then why are you so fucking mad at me?”

*

Because you’re right. Because I wanted you, and you knew it. “The same reason as always,” Draco says, voice low. “Because you’re a completely incensing pillock.”

*

Harry releases Malfoy’s wrist and lets his own arm drop. He looks between his eyes, tries to see something there beyond the cold anger, but he’s not easy to read. “If that were true,” says Harry, “you wouldn’t have had sex with me in the first place. Try again.”

*

Draco huffs in incredulous disbelief. Just where the fuck does Potter get off talking to him like he’s a misbehaving first year. “I‘ve no obligation to explain myself to you. We hate each other, we’ve always hated each other. Lines were blurred, that’s all there is to it.”

*

"I don't hate you," Harry says quietly. It would be easier, probably. But he doesn't. If he did, he thinks he probably would've fucked off by now. "I haven't in a long time. I don't know what you told Hermione, but that wasn't a hate fuck to me. I'm not like that."

*

“But you—" Draco clears his throat. “But you do. You said I was evil.”

*

"You're not evil," Harry says, rolling his eyes half-heartedly. "I was just being a prick, I didn't mean it. You're so prickly, you just — you don't let me take a breath without making it a fight. Believe me, I've seen evil and it's decidedly not you. So you can quit acting like I think you're the scum of the earth because I don't."

*

Draco studies Potter’s face. His mouth is a hard line, and he looks vexed, still, but not like he’s lying. “I don’t know how to talk to you, though,” he says. “If you don’t hate me.”

*

It's a strange thing to say and it makes Harry frown.

"I'm a person, Malfoy," he says. "You talk to me like a normal fucking person."

*

Draco opens his mouth to say; you’re not a normal person, but then his wand starts to vibrate incessantly against his wrist. “ _Fuck,_ ” he mutters instead, because it means he’s being missed on the ward. Mark that down as the second time he’s let Potter compromise his job. “I’ve got to go. I trust you can show yourself out?”

*

Harry's heart sinks when Malfoy's wand vibrates; he can see the shutters closing, knows that whatever headway he'd been about to make is lost. There's a barrier again that he wouldn't be able to get through right now even if he'd had the energy to try.

"Yeah," he says. He stares at him another second, wondering at the disappointment he feels. "Whatever. See you, Malfoy."

*

“Ta ta,” Draco says, and leaves before Potter can look at him like that anymore than he already has.


	5. The Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter (a whole ass double christmas special!) is going to be up on christmas 🎄❤️ see you then!

When Blaise asks Draco whether he'll be coming to Venus in the evening, Draco says yes. When Blaise asks Draco if he would like a cocktail, and then another, Draco says yes. When they're in one of the five private rooms on the mezzanine, and Blaise is lamenting the quality of his coke in recent weeks, and Pansy is fishing a cigarette stick out of her corset, Blaise asks Draco if he wants a quick fuck, and Pansy says; yeah, and can I stay? Draco says no, and _no_. The two of them look rather perplexed.

*

Draco’s weird. He’s always been weird, since they were kids. There aren’t many Slytherins who are easy to read, necessarily, but Draco’s enigmatic to the point of being an isolationist when he feels like it. Too many times Blaise and Pansy have spent weeks knowing only something is wrong with him, but not what. It was the worst at school, particularly as they got older and sweet old Lucius dug his nails deeper into Draco’s neck, but in Paris things had changed a little. Just a _little_ , but it had been something. 

He hasn’t expressed the feeling out loud, but Blaise is of the private opinion that coming back to England had been a terrible idea. He’s enjoying himself, of course (save for the subpar blow), and he knows Pansy will be fine once she gets the logistics of her company sorted, but Draco? 

If anything, Blaise is surprised it’s taken a whole month for this to happen. He doesn’t like seeing him this way, but also he’s hardly as much fun when he’s sulking. Especially over Potter. 

Pansy had told him. He’d have reamed into Draco about it if Pansy hadn’t made him swear on his cock he wouldn’t say anything. 

“What's wrong, darling?” Pansy says lightly. Blaise rolls his eyes. He’s had quite enough of this. 

“Oh, come off it,” he says drily. And to Draco, “She told me about Potter. Quit sulking, Draco, it’s _boring_. Why don’t I put on some hideous rags and find some stupid glasses and you can pretend I’m golden boy when I fuck you, yeah? It’s time we get you past this once and for all.”

*

“Don’t be fucking glib,” Draco snaps. Of course Pansy would’ve told Blaise. He shouldn’t have expected any less, and he hardly has the sentience to be miffed at her for it. “I'm not _sulking_ , I’m merely reflecting upon the ongoing affliction that is my life. Give me another shot. Two.”

*

Blaise gives Pansy a look, who gives him a quelling one in return that he ignores. He gets up and reseats himself beside Draco with an arm slung about his slim shoulders. "Pouting is the same as sulking, baby boy," Blaise hums against his cheek. He takes Draco's chin and turns his face so he can kiss him on the mouth. "Stop thinking about it," he says. "Put him out of your mind. He's a troglodyte."

"He is," says Pansy. "Prehistoric, Draco."

*

Draco says into Blaise’s lips (which taste like vodka. Or maybe that's him), “Don’t call me that.”

*

Blaise grins and gives him another lingering kiss that he trails down to his jaw. His hand moves to the back of Draco’s neck, thumb making circles against his skin. “Are we done with Potter?”

*

"Mm," Draco murmurs. "You don't know. You don't know anything, either of you."

*

At that Blaise pulls back, frowning at him. 

“What does that mean?” Pansy asks before Blaise can even open his mouth. She’s sitting forward, properly interested. “Did something else happen?”

*

"Many things," Draco says, and leans forward, because Blaise has stopped kissing him. His lips are firmer than Potter's look, but they're still warm and good, and Draco thinks a bit less when they're on his. He's not in the mood for a fuck. A proper snog would be nice, though.

*

Interesting. 

He allows Draco another kiss, parting his lips and sliding his tongue between the familiar texture of his teeth. He’s easily one of Blaise’s favourite fucks: Draco is soft and pliant where it counts and a brat in the best way. He’d have been happy to fuck him now, here, with Pansy watching (he likes an audience sometimes), but Draco’s clearly distracted and the longer he holds onto whatever happened, the longer this Potter thing will be drawn out. And Blaise is sick to death of Potter. 

He pushes Draco onto his back on the sofa and crawls over him, dropping one more kiss onto his pretty mouth. “Tell us,” he says. “Out with it. Get it over with.”

*

Draco pouts, because he knows Blaise likes it when he does. He's not sure why he brought up the _more things_ that happened with Potter in that empty room at Mungo's, because he doesn't want to talk about it. Doesn't, doesn't. 

"He said he doesn't hate me."

*

“What? Wait, when did he—" Pansy starts saying, but Blaise cuts her off —

“Shut it,” he says to her, and ignores the sharp look she gives him for it. Then he looks back down at Draco. “Is that all? You didn’t fuck?”

*

Draco frowns. “ _No_.”

*

“Good,” Blaise says. He pushes Draco’s shirt up, trails his fingers along the lines of his Adonis belt to watch goose bumps appear on his milky white skin. Then further up, where he plucks at the navel ring which matches his own. “He had his chance, right, baby? He doesn’t get another.”

*

Draco frowns some more when Blaise calls him baby. He doesn’t like that (and Blaise knows it), but he does like it when Blaise kisses the bracket of his ribs, so he lets it slide. 

“No,” he agrees, because he’s already discussed with Pansy his firm resolve to not fuck Potter, ever again. “But he’s. He’s not _normal_ , like that.”

*

Blaise huffs out a sigh against Draco's ribs and sits up, still straddling him. If he had even a sickle for every time Draco wouldn't let the subject of Potter drop.

"Will you quit it, Blaise?" Pansy says. She gets up from the bed and sits beside Draco's head, running fingers through his white hair with those talons she calls nails. They do admittedly feel rather good on one's scalp. "Draco, what do you mean, darling?"

*

Draco tilts his head into Pansy’s touch. “He said it wasn’t a hate fuck,” he says, wiggling a little under Blaise’s warm weight. “Why would he say that.”

*

Pansy looks up and catches his eye, and they share a silent moment of communication. She looks as confused as Blaise feels, and significantly more apprehensive.

"Because he thinks he shits gold," Blaise says before Pansy can give her two knuts. "Establishing his moral high ground, that's all, Draco. Maybe trying to get another fuck out of you, one where he can actually finish."

"He's right," Pansy agrees. "Although I wish you wouldn't be such a prick about it, Blaise, Draco's sensitive and quite sloshed at the moment, be gentle."

*

“Not sensitive,” Draco protests. “Not drunk.” 

“Of course not,” Pansy says, and strokes the hair off his forehead, and Draco knows she’s being patronising.

*

"Actually you _are_ ," Blaise drawls. "I simply have no desire to coddle you the way she does." He plucks the cigarette from Pansy's free hand and takes a long drag off of it.

"You coddle him sometimes," Pansy points out. "When you're less randy and not on as many drugs."

"When do I coddle him?"

"Oh, the _number_ of times I've seen you two spread out on top of each other after a fuck—"

"That's _cuddling_ , you daft bint, not coddling—"

"It's the same thing in this case, you treat him like a little doll after you're finished, it's very cute—"

"I can't stand you," Blaise says to her sharply, to which Pansy rolls her eyes.

"That's not what you said last night when I was balls deep in your arse—"

"You don't _have_ balls, Pansy—"

"The _strap_ , Blaise—"

*

“ _Shut up_ ," Draco says. “Shut up, shut all the way up, both of you.” He’s trying to think, and it’s hard enough already without their bitching.

*

Blaise cuts off just as he's about to retort when Draco speaks up, but he gives Pansy two fingers for good measure.

"Shall I take you home, darling?" Pansy says. Practically _coos_. Blaise rolls his eyes. "I think you need a bath."

"Quit trying to fuck him, Pansy."

"It's a _bath_ , pet."

*

Draco huffs and squirms around until Blaise gets the hint and slides off his lap. He knows his arse is an exceptional specimen, but he does get awfully sick of Pansy and Blaise fighting over it. 

“D’like a bath,” he says. “ _My_ flat, where I don’t have to listen to you two bickler—bickering.”

*

"Good, what did I tell you?" Pansy says happily. "Come, Draco, I'll Apparate us there." She stands and holds a hand out to him.

"You two are exceptionally dull," Blaise tells them. It's not a tragedy or anything — there are plenty of people in his club he can get off with. Bit of a shame, though. He'd been rather in the mood for some quality time with his two oldest friends. "Don't let him fuck Potter. And you don't fuck him either, you utterly depraved twat."

*

“Don’t worry. I’m sure even my strap would wilt in the face of all that righteous indignation.”

Blaise snickers, and Draco slides from the low slung couch to the ground. This close, he can hear the steady thrum of music from the club below. “Apparate me from here,” he demands. “Tired.”

*

Pansy gets an arm round Draco's waist and Apparates them directly into his bathroom. It seems easiest, given how drunk he is.

She helps him undress but remains tragically platonic about the whole thing when she helps him into his tub which she magicks full of steaming hot water and rose petals. Another flick of her wand and there are candles burning on most surfaces, perfumed and soothing. Finally she Conjures a velvet-covered chair, and she pulls out another cigarette as she sits.

"Draco," she says, flicking some ash onto the floor, "what exactly did Potter say to you?"

*

Draco drops the rose petal he’s been tearing into little pieces and reaches out for the cigarette. 

He says, after a puff, “He was angry because I told Granger that it was a hate fuck, and she thought that was unhealthy, so he got in trouble. And I said that he should get fucked, or something, and then he said _he_ fucked me up properly, and I shouldn’t tell him I begged. He said that to me.”

*

The sentence confuses her for a moment, until she realises the stressed pronoun isn't referring to Potter. Unconsciously she sneers, back stiffening.

"Your father?" she asks, clarifying. "He told you your father fucked you up properly?"

*

Draco hums. “Yes, Lucius.”

*

She takes the cigarette back, shakes her head as she hits it. "What a massive fucking prick," she says around the smoke. "And he told you it _wasn't_ a hate fuck ... before or after that?"

*

“ _Is_ a prick,” Draco agrees. “It was after that, I think. After I—" And then Draco remembers what came next. “ _Oh_ ,” he says. “Oh, fuck.”

*

Pansy lifts an eyebrow at him. Her stomach sinks a bit. "What? Draco, what?"

*

“I tried to slap him,” says Draco. He still doesn’t really feel bad about it, just a bit funny behind his ribs.

*

She snorts. Taps more ash on the floor. "So? Good, he deserved it. Bringing up Lucius." Then she pauses. "Wait, tried?"

*

Draco can feel a migraine coming on in earnest. “Yes, tried. He caught my hand, and asked me why I was so angry at him.”

*

"Dear god, Draco," Pansy sighs. It shouldn't be surprising. She's truly never understood the two of them and their insistence upon complicating a very obvious mutual dislike. "I don't suppose you told him to fuck off?"

*

“I _did_. He said try again.”

*

Pansy pinches the bridge of her nose. "This whole thing is absurd," she says. "Surely you know that. I don't even— Where did this happen? When did you see him?"

*

Draco waves a hand. "He came to Mungo's the other night. Pansy, he thought it was because he wouldn’t let us finish. On the lift.” After a moment, Draco says, “it’s not,” because he thinks Pansy should know that.

*

She doesn't know which thread to follow. Whether to ask _why_ Potter was at Mungo's, if he'd sought Draco out. But she goes with the latter instead.

"It isn't?"

*

Draco pulls himself up on his elbows, so he's leaning out of the bath and water sloshes over the lip and Pansy glares at him for getting it on her shoes. "Pansy," he says. "No."

*

Using her free hand, Pansy removes first one shoe and then the other, setting both aside and out of harm's reach. "Well are you going to tell me the reason then? I assume it isn't simply that he's a prat and you hate him, since that seems obvious."

*

"He is a prat," Draco says, sinking back into the bath and leaning his head against the cool porcelain. He wants Pansy to stroke his hair again, so he makes a small noise and lolls it in her direction. "Do hate him."

*

Taking the hint (and rolling her eyes fondly), Pansy indulges him and begins moving her fingers through his hair, damp a bit on the ends, using her nails to scratch his scalp. It makes her stomach hurt — perhaps 'clear mutual dislike' isn't quite accurate. If it was she'd hardly be so apprehensive about this rekindling of his Potter flame.

"Draco," she says softly, "I think it would be a very poor decision to get involved with Potter."

*

Draco already knows that. Draco doesn't _want to._

"Sober me," he says, making up his mind right then, because he's certain this wouldn't be happening if he weren't drunk. He could've side-stepped this whole conversation very neatly indeed, and his stupid, fuzzy brain wouldn't be making him feel things he'd rather not.

*

It's a less than welcome development, certainly, but Pansy forces herself not to become fraught with worry. They've been home a month — surely with time this reinfatuation with Potter will taper off. Especially if he continues being a douche.

"Come," she says, taking Draco's hand and helping him out of the bath. She gives him his robe, leads him to his room, and fetches a Sobering Solution from his stock, which she brings to him in bed. Once he's downed the whole thing she lets him cuddle up to her with her hand back in his hair. 

After a minute, she asks, "Better?"

*

"No," Draco says. "I was entirely embarrassing tonight. Blaise is right, sulking about Potter is fucking boring."

*

"Blaise is a cock with legs, Draco," Pansy says. "He thinks everything besides sex is boring. It _is_ useless, though." She hesitates, still stroking his hair, debating asking the question she wants to ask. "Do you have feelings for him?"

*

Draco knows what she means, but he says, "The only feelings I have for Blaise are vexation and arousal. Often at the same time. Very occasionally platonic affection."

*

Pansy rolls her eyes and says nothing, merely continues scratching her fingers along his scalp, waiting for the real answer. Although the avoidance does seem to indicate something.

*

Eventually, when it becomes clear Pansy's not taking it, Draco says, "No. Of course not."

*

"Of course not," Pansy agrees. She doesn't push it, because it seems pointless to make him admit it out loud if it is true, even partially.

Poor Draco had always been the more emotional of the three of them. 

They descend into a comfortable silence, and eventually she feels Draco's breathing evening out into the long, slow patterns of sleep. She stays with him another half hour, petting his hair and smoking cigarettes. If she didn't have a reputation to uphold, she thinks she'd find Potter herself and give him the verbal flaying of his life for fucking with Draco when he'd been doing so well.

It's nearly two when she leaves, tucking him in and extinguishing the lights, and she sets the wards on his flat before stepping into the Floo.

* * *

Klaus is a very different pet than Hedwig had been, and not just because he’s a cat. He’s friendly, is the thing. Warm and affectionate and follows Harry around the flat when he’s bored, purring and rubbing his ankles. Hedwig had been ... well, more like himself, really. Quite sarcastic, in her own avian way. He misses her still, but he likes to think she’d be glad he’s happier these days and not living with the Dursleys. 

Klaus is currently making his rounds, moving from person to person for pettings and attention not unlike a dog, which Harry has always thought was very funny. He’s on Neville’s lap at the moment looking like a grey loaf of bread with his eyes squinted in pleasure as Neville scratches his neck. 

He (Neville), like everyone else, looks extremely baked. There’s a blunt circulating, and Harry had taken out the _big_ bong. It’s all pretty standard fare whenever the lot of them get together at his flat. 

This is best: Hermione is usually less perceptive when she’s had a couple hits and seeing as he hasn’t told her (or Ron, or anyone) about what happened between himself and Malfoy the other night, that’s a blessing. Because he doesn’t feel like talking about it. Wallowing is much preferable currently.

“These are so much fun again now you got rid of that bint Natalie,” says Seamus, completely unnecessarily, in Harry’s opinion. But Parvati decides to agree loudly. 

“Well I’m glad you’re more comfortable now, Seamus,” Harry says, and takes the joint from Ron to his left. “Incidentally so am I. I appreciate you reminding me whenever you get the chance.”

*

Seamus says, "You're welcome," and Harry looks very much like he's resisting the urge to kick him. Ron wouldn't stop him; Seamus can be a massive prick when he's high. Though he does agree with the sentiment. 

Harry's much happier without his ex around, and so is everyone else. She really wasn't very nice, though Harry always insisted there was another side to her, and she just got a bit nervous or something around his friends. Ron and Hermione were of the private opinion that she was just a bitch, but they tried their best to be supportive. 

Then came the fighting. At first Harry would tell them about the fights, but he must've started to notice how concerned they looked when he did, because he stopped all of a sudden. He looked tired a lot, and unhappy a lot, but whenever they asked he gave them this look, and said 'I'm not a child'. He'd tell them, very stiffly, that things were great, and then he would leave. 

Ron and Hermione would sit at the kitchen table for hours almost every time after they saw Harry in those months, talking. Ron knew Harry would hate it, being discussed like this, but he was being rather worrying and that warranted discussion. 

("It's like he won't break up with her for his own pride," Hermione said, around a year and a half in. Harry had been very stormy when he arrived after dinner, with big, dark circles under his eyes. He kept cracking his neck, and said it was hurting because he'd slept on the couch. He caught their look at that, and stormed out again without even drinking his tea. 

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not exactly sure. It's just— you know what Harry can be like. He'll think it'll be his fault if he can't fix things between them. He'd see it as giving up, or something, to just end it."

Ron had sighed, and beckoned Hermione closer so he could stretch across two dining chairs with his head in her lap. "We'll talk to him. Next time he comes over, we'll talk to him.")

"Fuck," says Dean. "If Ron's gone all quiet we really must've had enough. Don't roll another one, Luna."

*

“What the fuck?” says Seamus. “Don’t be stupid. Roll it, Luna. Ron’s fine. Look at him, he’s just vibing, leave him alone.”

In fact Harry’s pretty sure he knows what Ron’s thinking about; he and Hermione are good (if obvious) about not bringing Natalie up, but he knows perfectly well they still discuss it amongst themselves when they think he’s retreating into himself. Or whatever. 

“Neville,” Harry says loudly even as he slumps a little in his chair. “What’d you bring?”

* 

“A veritable feast, Harry,” says Neville. Ron shakes his head, as if it will clear it, and shoves Hermione’s feet off his lap so he can inspect Neville’s wares. 

“Have you got sausages?”

“Course.”

“Sandwiches?”

“Ham and cheese. And Luna’s vegetarian. And I made some treacle tarts for you, Harry.”

* 

"Hell yeah, thanks," he says, leaning over Ron to see the food. Neville's treacle tart rivals Molly's or the ones from Hogwarts and usually he'd be a lot more excited about it considering how much he's smoked, but Harry's pretty sure there's not enough marijuana in all of Great Britain to get him to stop thinking about Malfoy, so.

And of course Seamus has decided to add the guilt about Natalie to it.

"Gonna go get some plates and stuff," he says. "Seamus, will you get the bong away from the edge of the fucking table, it hits worse every time you break it."

He disappears into the kitchen with Seamus grumbling and Dean taking the piss out of him, and Harry barely has any time to start feeling guilty for wishing they'd all fuck off sometime soon before Ron's joining him with that look on his face like he's concerned but pretending not to be so Harry doesn't bite his head off.

"D'you ever wonder how Seamus hasn't burned his flat down yet?" Harry says as plates and cutlery begin flying out of shelves and cupboards and stacking themselves on the table.

* 

Ron knows Harry’s trying to start a conversation before he can ask about Malfoy. He’s much less subtle than he thinks he is, especially when he’s high. 

“A practiced hand at Augamentis?” guesses Ron.

* 

Harry snorts half-heartedly. His eyes and limbs feel heavy and so does his sense of humour. He regrets packing the indica. It makes him too vulnerable to his emotions.

“Yeah.” He leans back against a counter and looks at Ron, arms crossed, brows raised, knowing why he’s here and wondering if he’ll let Harry keep dodging around it. “Too bad he’s shit at repairing all my glass he’s broken.”

*

Ron says, " _Harry_."

*

”Ron.”

*

Ron sighs. Harry’s doing the look again, and he really hasn’t missed it. “Are you gonna be annoying about this?”

* 

“‘Bout what?” Harry says obstinately.

* 

“You’re doing it. You’re being annoying.”

*

Harry rolls his eyes and lets his arms drop, shoving his hands in his pockets instead.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

*

Ron doesn’t especially want to talk about it, either. It’s just that Hermione thinks he’ll fair better than she will, and if Ron’s not a good enough friend to put the whole Malfoy-in-a-sexual-context thing (which is completely nauseating) aside and have this conversation for Harry’s sake, he’s at least a good enough husband to do it for hers.

“Why not? You were bloody voluntary with several details you had to have known would scar me for life the other day.”

*

It’s funny in a cosmic kind of way, like if he could step outside of his body and enjoy the stupidity of it from without. But Harry doesn’t laugh, because he’s tragically tethered to his mortal carcass, which is currently sagging with the weight of his apparently tangible emotions.

“Consider yourself lucky you’re not mates with Malfoy, then, because he had absolutely no problem sharing much worse with Hermione. And don’t act like she hasn’t told you.”

*

Ron has the good grace to look a little sheepish about that. Hermione had told him, though she only got about halfway in before Ron clapped his hands over his ears, and no amount of scolding him about how he’s a father now and shouldn’t be acting like he’s five literal years old could get him to remove them.

“Stop trying to divert, mate.”

*

"I know Hermione's put you up to this," Harry says bluntly. "She's so fucking freaked out about the whole thing, it's driving me nuts. I mean, look, I get that Natalie was a shit show and you two are eternally worried now, okay? And I get that I don't exactly have a nice past with Malfoy, that none of us do, but I need to figure this out, Ron." His cheeks are warm, his heart pumping a little faster. "Without Hermione taking notes every step of the way, if possible. I just ..." He lets out a deep sigh and presses his palms into his eyes until he sees popping lights. "I can't stop thinking about him."

*

Ron tries his hardest not to feel offended. "Do you really think the only reason I'm asking you about this — the only reason Hermione wants to know — is to soothe her own anxiety, or something? Seriously, Harry, do you know her at all?"

*

"Oh, shut up, you know that's not what I meant," Harry says wearily, dropping his hands. "Did you even hear me? I can't get him out of my fucking head. I swore to her I wasn't getting involved with him." It makes his stomach clench. He lets out a humourless laugh and meets Ron's eyes. "I _want_ to, Ron. Do you get it? It's, like, physically nauseating trying to convince myself not to go see him again, over and over."

*

If Ron had known in sixth year that Harry would end up shagging Malfoy and becoming obsessed with him all over again, he doesn’t think it would’ve come as that much of a surprise. He would never tell Harry this, because Ron’s pretty sure he would find it completely humiliating. But yeah. The parallels between then and now make his stomach hurt, a bit.

“I, er, fuck. That’s not good, is it?” Ron says, and he knows it’s probably not the right thing. He also knows Hermione would have said “ _oh,_ Harry,” and then hugged him (or at least tried), and then told him something else helpful and profound and soothing. Hermione’s good, like that. Ron never has been.

*

"No, it's pretty much shit," Harry says with half-arsed sarcasm. "But don't worry, there's zero chance of anything happening. He doesn't want anything to do with me."

*

"What?" says Ron. He wishes he'd had the bollocks to have this conversation when he wasn't so fucking high. "You saw him again?"

*

“Yeah,” Harry says gruffly. He looks at the doorway to the living room, through which he can see Neville helping to light the bong while Luna hits it, and then down at the kitchen floor. “The other night. I was angry he talked to Hermione about what happened in the lift.” A long pause, and he shrugs. “I was just looking for an excuse to see him. He knew it, too.”

*

Ron refrains from saying ' _oh_ , Harry,' just barely. "Fuck, mate. Why?" he says, because he really does want to know.

*

"I dunno, do I? He's so ..." Pointy? Prickly? Interesting and impossible and unobtainable and kind of really nice-looking? "I dunno. Like I said, it doesn't matter. He's not interested in figuring anything out between us. There's too much history."

*

Ron knows a lot about complicated histories. Of course, he never hated Hermione in the way Harry hated Malfoy, not ever, but a lot of the time he spent complaining about her or bitching at her was definitely all mixed up in really wanting to touch her hair. "So would you like, er." Ron doesn't think he can look at Harry when he says this. He doesn't think Harry would want him to. "Want Malfoy to be your boyfriend, or something?"

*

"No," Harry says instantly, without any thought involved. His stomach lurches horribly. His face is hot. The thought of it has occurred to him in the last few days, sort of like a theoretical concept, a strange and impossible and not-very-comfortable abstract idea that he doesn't linger on because it feels wrong, somehow. And he doesn't even know what the fuck that would look like. "This is why I don't wanna talk about it, I don't _know_ what I want, I've got no idea. I wish he'd stayed in fucking Paris."

*

"Not very nice for Paris."

*

Harry scoffs, then laughs.

Yeah. Not very nice.

"Are we done, then?" he asks, gesturing to the living room, and because he _needs_ to lighten the mood adds, "I'm hungry as hell and Neville's treacle tart tastes better than Malfoy's arse. And that's saying something."

*

Ron says, "Yeah, listen, never fucking tell me anything like that ever again. And I suppose so. Just — you can deal with this, yeah? You're good?"

*

"Yes," Harry says emphatically, already taking out his wand and sending the plates and forks and knives into the living room ahead of him. "I deal with things, that's what I do." A sentiment he could in no way overstate.

He avoids Hermione's eye and lets Neville give him a slice of the treacle tart (technically it does taste better than Malfoy's arse, but in other, more important ways, it really doesn't) before going to plop himself down next to Dean.

"Harry," Seamus says (Parvati says "Seamus!" but he shushes her), "how many warnings do you get before the Aurors take you away for good?"

"Seamus, you idiot," Dean scolds him. Harry pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth and frowns at him.

"What do you mean 'for good'?" he says slowly. "And what do you mean 'warnings,' there are no warnings, Seamus. If the Aurors come, that's your warning."

*

"You know," Ron says thoughtfully, settling back down next to Hermione with a plate of sandwiches. "George was asking a very similar question the other day. You should keep an eye on that, Harry."

*

"Great," Harry says sarcastically. He points his fork full of tart at Seamus, "No warnings. Don't do anything fucking stupid, alright? I'm gonna lose my bloody job over the lot of you."

"Yeah, of course," Parvati laughs. She flips her long hair over her shoulder in a graceful motion and rolls her eyes. "They're itching to fire you, Harry. How inconvenient it must be for the Ministry to employ the Chosen One."

"I thought I was clear about my rule," says Harry.

"What was it again?" says Dean.

"If you call me that, I get to waterboard you."

"But I wasn't _calling_ you that, per se," Parvati says in what could almost be called a drawl, which makes Harry frown, "I was only referring to the title in the abstract."

"The what?" says Neville. His eyes are completely bloodshot.

"The point is," says Harry loudly, "don't be morons. It's so easy."

"Not for Seamus, it isn't," Dean says grimly. "Ron, d'you remember that night he kept waking us up having conversations in his sleep? Harry, you were in the hospital wing. He kept —" he starts laughing suddenly, "— he kept saying, 'please, not the pudding, not the pudding!'"

*

Ron had been trying awfully hard to be solemn that night out of respect for his friend, who had just fallen several hundred feet out of the sky (although, that must've been about the fifth time Harry had landed himself in the hospital wing, so it was rather difficult to be appropriately concerned). When Seamus had started groaning and having ostensible nightmares over various lunching items, he'd given up altogether.

"Merlin," Ron coughs (having snorted and then choked on a piece of bread), "and the fucking, shit, what was it?"

"What?" says Seamus (he's frowning, even though he's heard this many times before).

"The thing he said about the um, the jacket potatoes!"

"Oh!" says Dean. "Don't eat their jackets—"

"—cause it's winter and they'll be cold!"

*

"Well, that's true," Luna says sensibly, which finally makes Harry burst out laughing. "Of course, they're not really potatoes, they're only called that because they're plump and brown. And they do get very cold in the winter, which is why they hide in people's jackets."

"Oh, Merlin," Harry hears Hermione sigh.

"I always slept through everything," Neville says miserably.

"Neville," says Dean, "your snores could wake the dead. If you can sleep through that, you can sleep through anything, mate."

*

It's nice to know that Luna is still completely batty. Hermione's friends with Malfoy, and Harry wants to fuck him, and Pansy Parkinson walks up to them in pubs and starts talking about sex, but some things never change.


	6. The Christmas Special, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas 🎄🎁

The manor is bitterly lacking, as it's been the last five or six years. There are no house-elves to decorate. Narcissa, always in sour spirits around Christmas, refuses to contribute much more than a tree. And without his wand, there is nothing that he, Lucius, can do about it.

Still, festive or not, this ancestral home is a luxury and he is, as ever, glad to lord over it. Especially when his son is home, as he has not been for some time. With a bit of luck, he thinks he may still be able to salvage what's left of his son and heir.

"Christmas is not a time to hole yourself away, Draco," Lucius says when he finally finds him in his study with a book. He keeps his best whiskey in here, and he knows Draco's been pilfering it since he showed up. But he'll address that later. For now he takes a seat in another armchair and fills two tumblers instead of one. "You've been back three months. We've hardly seen you."

*

Draco knows he's in for a treat when Lucius sweeps into the study, robes billowing behind him like he's still a man of consequence and renown, striding through the Ministry atrium on his way to bribe another public official, and not some decrepit old bastard magically shackled to his own house for next seventeen years.

"Quite," says Draco. He doesn’t bother make mention of the fact that he’s actually been home barely a month, because the demented coot will only find a way to twist it to his agenda. "A ghastly oversight on my part. I'll triage my diary. Make room for some family time in the new year."

*

"Don't be smart, Draco," Lucius says calmly. "It's plebeian. Drink," he adds. It brooks no argument. The boy is a bit of a pansy — always has been — and he's always believed that developing a taste for whiskey would harden him. "I am still your father, am I not? Do you enjoy knowing your mother has cried over your absences?"

*

Draco sets his book (a history of Grecian wandlore, fascinating stuff) down on his lap and reaches over the arm of his chair to swirl his wand in the whiskey. He has no interest in the stuff, and he's far past choking it down just to appease his father. "Rather a point of contention, I'd say. And don't speak nonsense, Lucius, of course I take no pleasure in upsetting Mother," Draco says, though it makes him feel all shrunken and constricted. 

*

Lucius watches Draco dip his wand into the whisky and feels an all-too-familiar rage. He know he's doing it on purpose, flaunting his magic, the adult version of sticking one's tongue out. Coupled with the use of his given name, it enrages him so thoroughly that he swipes the tumbler off the end table between them and doesn't flinch as it shatters on the Turkish rug.

"There," he says. "I've done it for you. Throw the tantrum next time, Draco, instead of dirtying your wand." He sips at his own. Crosses a leg over his knee. "You do take pleasure in your mother's suffering. You do, or you wouldn't have stayed away so long. I was never such an ungrateful son. I don't know where you get it."

*

"Perhaps your father wasn't as much of an utter despot as mine," Draco says, waiting until he can be certain in the stability of his voice before he speaks. Lucius has been like this for quite some time now, since Azkaban and maybe even a little bit before, but still it unnerves him. His father has never been terribly warm, but Draco doesn't remember his eyes being quite so frigid when he left for France as they were when he got back. Now they're worse, all milky and gelid, and Draco doesn't want to look at them.

*

Lucius sneers, watching his son look anywhere but at him. Draco looks so much like himself, and his father Abraxas before him: the eyes, the jaw, the nose. But he’d inherited Narcissa’s emotional weaknesses, her penchant for disobedience when the situation doesn’t please her. It’s pitiful, embarrassing. Tragic, to be sure. Only one heir they’d made, and he’s a disgrace. 

“Is that what you think?” he says finally. Lucius gets up from his seat and moves before Draco. He bends, hovering over him, and grabs his chin to force his attention. “My father did what was required of him and so have I.” He grips harder, shakes him slightly. “Your disrespect won’t be tolerated in this house, Draco. Even now. Is that understood?”

*

 _Yes, Father_. He has to purse his lips around it, an instinct that's been inculcated over the years with stern lectures and neat little Stinging hexes. 

Draco says, "I'm here for one night, Lucius, no longer." His father's hand is numbing where the fingertips grip at his skin, but he doesn't want to touch it to wrench it off. He presses his wand to the heel instead. "I'll do as I please."

*

He pulls back like he’s been stung by the wand, which he’s not so sure he hasn’t. He looks from it to Draco, surprised, disgusted, resentful. After a moment of silence, he slaps Draco across the cheek. Not hard. Enough to sting, the way the jinxes used to when he acted up. 

“Pitiful,” he spits. “Useless boy. Get out of my sight.”

*

Draco gets up from his chair when Lucius slaps him, and leaves not because he was told to but because he doesn't want his father to see his eyes smarting. 

Lucius was never so cruel (to others, certainly, but not to Draco) before the end of the war. When he was a child, his father would take him to the lake on the edge of the Manor's property and enchant little balls of soft, wavering light to flicker out of the water. Draco never saw Lucius twirling his wand behind his back — he thought there were magical, shimmery fish living in the lake until he was eleven. 

Draco's first year at Hogwarts was the year Lucius decided he was no longer a child, and, therefore, shouldn't be disciplined like one. A quick smack across the knuckles or prod in the ribs with the heavy, emerald studded serpent atop his cane when he was insolent. When he was a little older, hexes so fleeting he wouldn't feel the pain until moments later, on the soft, porcelain plane of his cheek. 

During the war, when Voldemort had occupied the Manor, Draco hardly saw his father. Once, in the weeks they knew he was coming, he came across him stooped in his mum's arms. She was rubbing circles on his back, thin and fragile in the way she'd always been but looking so much bigger than her husband. It was the first time Draco had ever seen his father that way — misshapen and trembling. He didn't like it when Lucius spat at him or hexed him, but he liked this far less. 

When the Dark Lord arrived, Draco didn't leave his rooms unless summoned. Sometimes Lucius was there too, but he would only look through Draco, never meeting his eye, and when he grabbed him by the shoulder to lead him from the room once they were dismissed his hand was bony and cold, and they wouldn't speak. 

In the end, Lucius's absence didn't matter, because Draco learned that disobedience could be punished with pain far greater than anything his father had ever inflicted, that year.

He finds his mother in the conservatory, with a pot of tea at her elbow. Unlike Father, she still has her wand, and she’s using it now to water a flowering patch of lillies of the valley.

*

It's easy to forget it's Christmastime around the Manor, what with the lack of any festive decorations. Once upon a time it had been Narcissa's very favourite holiday, especially when Draco was a baby. He'd loved the lights, and so they had had the house-elves fill nearly every room and corridor with them for his amusement. There was always a grand tree in the drawing room that they decorated as a family, the three of them, and a smaller tree in Draco's room that he'd been allowed to decorate with whatever he wanted.

They're fond memories, though they don't do much to alleviate the chill of reality. Five Christmases trapped as a prisoner in her own home and the spirit tends to fade a bit.

She looks up from the flowers she's watering and thinks, when she sees Draco, that at least she has him this year.

"Darling," she says with a smile. The water stops flowing from her wand and she gestures to the pot of tea on the table. It's then that she notices the red print on his lovely cheek and her stomach goes cold, but she says nothing about it. She'd hoped they might ... but it doesn't matter. "Join me?”

*

“Of course.” Draco sits at the wrought iron chair opposite Narcissa. He saw her eyes dart to his cheek — Lucius has a quick, sharp wrist and it stings like a fucking bitch. He loves his mother, but he does wish that the streak of fierce protectiveness she harbours wouldn’t make such allowances for her ‘sadistic cunt of a husband’ (quote Blaise). “The flowers look beautiful, Mum.”

*

"Thank you, dear." She levitates a cup in front of him and fills it with tea, then adds three lumps of sugar and a bit of milk. It's the way he's taken it since he was a child — always a sweet tooth, that one. She smiles fondly to herself as she stirs it and then slides it over to him. "I've taken to gardening as a hobby." She gestures around the conservatory, spacious and open with vines crawling in through artful gaps in the glass ceiling and bursts of colour from strategically-placed flower beds. Sometimes 'hobby' doesn't feel quite the right word.

She sits as well and refills her own cup. There is a part of her listening for Lucius, in case whatever happened between him and Draco causes him to come looking for a fight. The other part of her drinks in the sight of her son greedily.

"Tell me more about St Mungo's, Draco," she requests. "You've told me all about Paris, but nothing about what you'll be doing while you're home again."

*

Draco takes his tea, which is perfectly, hedonistically sugary, just as he’s always liked it. “I’ve a residency on the Spell Damage ward for the next six months. With Hermione Granger.” _Do you remember her, Mother? You and I hurled slurs at her in Madame Malkins when she was only sixteen. We watched Aunt Bella torture her on our drawing room floor._

*

"Oh?" Narcissa says in a tight voice. There's an uncomfortably familiar name she hadn't expected to hear. Hermone Granger — friend of Harry Potter, top of Draco's class at Hogwarts, Mudblood. (If she closes her eyes, she can see Bellatrix torturing the girl on their drawing room floor.) But Narcissa doesn't want to say anything to upset him. She feels she hardly knows him anymore; it's like stepping around shattered glass. "That's. Well. That's very nice. You enjoy it?" 

*

Mother, perpetually the hostess, has always been incredibly talented at polite conversation. She could talk for hours about absolutely nothing, Draco’s seen her do it. He resents her small-talking him, though.

“Very much so,” he says. “Now we’ve got that out of the way, can we talk about your husband? I know you want me here for Christmas lunch tomorrow Mother, but if he continues to bother me, I shan’t stay.”

*

Narcissa nearly starts. She’s taken so surprise by the rapid topic change — and to something she so violently does not want to talk about — that it takes her a moment to compose herself. It breaks her heart to know her son is an adult now, capable of his own decisions and opinions and with the freedom to do as he pleases. She misses her small boy with his easy laughter and his trivial tantrums.

“He’s your father, Draco,” she says. Her voice sounds high, strange. “We both want you here. He loves you and he’s missed you. That’s why he’s bothering you, darling. Humour him, won’t you?” 

*

“He does not love me,” Draco hisses. He regrets it immediately, the way his words make his mother flinch. He clears his throat. “I only mean to say, I am here for you and you only, Mum. I won’t tolerate him trying to get me back in his clutches.” 

*

“That’s enough, Draco,” Narcissa says sharply. It makes her throat feel tight with panic. She looks across the room at her snapdragons, away from the mark on his face. “Please. Accusing your father of — to say such a thing — it’s _Christmas_.” She meets his eye again and smiles. Reaches to place her hand over his. “You know I appreciate you being here, Draco. I’ve prepared your favourite for tomorrow, you know.” 

*

Mother has always been stubborn in her blindness to Lucius' flaws. Some would see it as admirable, probably, but it makes Draco sad. He hates to see her being so weak, when he knows she doesn't have to be. "How kind of you," he says cooly.

*

Narcissa sighs at the cold tone she’s met with. Draco had been capable of terrible brattiness when he was a child; he maintained icy silences for impressive spans of time, threw tantrums that made chandeliers fall from ceilings. But this is chillingly different. This is not a child’s tantrum but an adult’s resentment. After a moment, she stands and goes around the table, puts a gentle hand on Draco’s reddened cheek and pulls him against her breast. His hair is as soft as it was when he was a baby. The feel of it causes a tear to slip past her closed lids.

“I’m sorry for the way things turned out, Draco,” she says softly. “I am.” 

*

He lets his head be cradled and his hair stroked, because for all he begrudges, he loves his mother. And he had missed her while he was away, so much so he'd cried with it a few times. "I know."

*

She understands that Draco needs this, and in many ways so does she. Being a mother brought out the best in her: it still can, perhaps. She can’t bring herself to say out loud that what Lucius did was wrong, or that Azkaban planted a seed of insanity in his brain that seems to be rotting it at a quicker pace each year, but she can apologise, at least. Because she’d promised her son a much different life than the one he’s ended up with.

With a last stroke of the hair across his forehead, she pulls out the chair beside his and Summons her tea. “Let’s talk more about your career, shall we? I’m so interested. Are you ... working closely with Granger?”

*

Mother looks a little pained as she says it, but Draco appreciates the effort. “Yes. She’s head of the ward, you see. I often seek her consultation on my patients.”

*

“I see,” Narcissa says with a brave attempt at enthusiasm. It’s not that she doesn’t want to know, because she very much _does_ , it’s just that this new world is a difficult one to get used to. “You always said she was very intelligent. I’m glad to hear you two are friendly. Is she ...” She clears her throat quietly, and when she speaks her voice sounds a little unsteady, “Is she friends with Potter still?”

*

Draco chokes on his tea.

*

Startled, Narcissa pats Draco’s back until he seems to have moved past the episode. “Darling, are you alright?”

*

“Quite,” Draco says through another cough. For the last day or two, he’s been able to occupy his thoughts with the grim dilapidation of his childhood home and the man who occupies, enough so that Potter has been relegated to a mere resident of his subconscious. That is to say, he doesn’t want to talk about him. “Yes, she is.”

*

“Naturally. Well, that’s very nice. You’ve ... seen him, have you?”

*

“Yes,” Draco says. He picks up his teaspoon and flips it around between his fingers. “Briefly.”

*

“Really?” Narcissa says, a little surprised. She hadn’t really expected it. Not after ... everything, and that on top of the enmity between him and Draco in school that she and Lucius had never stopped hearing about.

She looks down at her cup, thinking not for the first time about that moment five years ago when she’d put all her faith into that boy and lied to the Dark Lord, scared witless, only knowing she needed to find a way out of there to look for Draco.

“And he’s well?” she asks weakly.

*

“He’s perfectly fine.” Draco dips the spoon into his tea, and stirs until a little whirlpool forms. “Now, must we discuss Harry Potter all afternoon? Tell me about your flowers.”

*

He’s clearly avoiding the topic, for which Narcissa can’t really blame him. Still, she can’t help but be interested.

“There’s not much to tell,” she says dismissively. “I’d like to hear more about it, if that’s alright. You know he’s a good person to have an association with, don’t you? He doesn’t ... surely he can’t blame you for ...?” _For what your father did. For all of it, everything._

*

“Likewise, Mother,” Draco says. “There’s not much to tell,” because he’d sooner move back into the Manor and Lucius’s private wing than tell his mum that Potter sort-of-fucked him in a lift, and everything else that’s happened since.

*

“Of course,” says Narcissa. She puts a smile back on. It simply isn’t worth pushing. “Well, in that case. How would you like to help me water the rest of my flowers?”

*

Draco says, “Naturally.” 

*

A small sigh of relief and she stands up, straightening her dress. “You will stay for Christmas lunch tomorrow, won’t you, Draco?” She hesitates, and then adds, “For me. It would mean so much.”

*

Draco watches his mother stand, the lines in her finely boned face that seem so much deeper than when he left her. “Of course I will, Mum.” 

* * *

> _Dear Pansy (and Blaise, because I know you’re reading over her shoulder),_
> 
> _I am enjoying a splendid few days of Yuletide jolliment here at Malfoy Manor (don’t roll your eyes, Blaise. You always have been terribly jealous of my ancestral home.) Lucius, soft at heart as he is around the holidays, has decorated every banister with fae-spun tinsel and sprigs of Elven holly._
> 
> _This evening, the three of us settled around the fire to eat gingerbread cookies prepared by dear old Mum (one of them was shaped like a Hippogriff. Isn’t that delightful?) and reminisce on the Christmases of my youth. It really was very heartwarming. I think Lucius spilled a tear or two. I am most looking forward to tomorrow, where we will sit down to a luncheon in our glorious dining room._
> 
> _Of course, Mother has had the Magical Fumigators in. Those traces of malevolence and pure evil leftover from you-know-who (who really was a most ungrateful house guest) are an interminable pest. Oh well. We shan’t let it dampen our high spirits. Missing you both terribly, but enjoying such top-hole family merrymaking that I can’t bring myself to fret too greatly!_
> 
> _Ha ha._
> 
> _It's half twelve in the morning as I'm writing this, so I expect you’re already at Blaise’s mum’s. I demand an extensive report on Penelope’s latest catch. She really is a scream, give her my best._
> 
> _You’re both cunts for having fun without me, please remember that. I’m eagerly awaiting the arrival of many, many presents (at least five. Each, not together) by owl first thing tomorrow morning. I’m sure Mother will have filled my stocking (which is rather moth-eaten, so that’s lovely), but Lucius probably got me an old stick. Or a pamphlet on purity in breeding, or something._
> 
> _Which does remind me, the old bastard sat me down last night (this was after dinner, and also after he cornered me in the study, smacked me in the face, and called me useless. It’s quite comforting, really, to know that aside from the crippling insanity, Azkaban hasn’t changed him all that much), and had an ever so serious chat with me about marriage._ 'It’s time to settle down, Draco. You’ll need to produce an heir before you’re thirty, Draco.'
> 
> _He suggested you, Pans, and Lucius’ word is law, so I suppose we’re getting married. Hurrah! Fourteen year old you would be so pleased, wouldn’t she? I can picture it already. We’ll both wear white suits that have ‘I’m actually fucking gay’ embroidered on the back in beautiful gold stitching, and instead of a band at the reception, we’ll have Blaise do drag._
> 
> _Anyway. I reminded him I’m very much otherwise inclined, which upset him quite a bit. Mother had to come and calm him down, and Lucius threw his shoes. Jolly good. Looking forward to Christmas lunch tomorrow. Should be a most interesting affair. I’ll be back around six, I think. The Floo’s disconnected, as are the Apparition wards, so I’ll have to walk(!!) to the gates and Apparate from there. Is that not the most tragic thing you’ve ever heard? I expect you both to be waiting for me at my flat when I arrive. Bring alcohol. And lube._
> 
> _I really am missing you both, even though I do hate you._
> 
> _Merry Christmas, etc._
> 
> _DM_


	7. The Christmas Special, Part 2

Charlie had a boyfriend in Romania. His name was Dominic, and they broke up after Charlie realised he'd rather spend time at work than the flat they shared. That was about three months before he'd gone back to England, and stayed there for two years. 

At first, Charlie moved back into his old bedroom. Its angled walls were papered in posters of dragons and brooms, the weird bands he'd liked as a kid. The picture of a Muggle girl in a bra and knickers that he'd shoved into his bedside draw — when he'd still been pretending to be straight and too busy with Quidditch to ever have a girlfriend — was still there, too.

The whole thing made him feel claustrophobic. When he went to escape into the yard, Harry was crying on the back steps. Charlie hardly knew him, but he sat down anyway. "Alright?"

Harry and Ginny's break up had lasted for days, and this was one of them. "Did you know I like blokes now?" 

"Is that why you're crying?"

Harry said, "I'm not crying."

After a few weeks, Charlie decided that he didn't particularly want to live at home again. He was in his mid-twenties. He also didn't particularly want to be too far away, since every few nights he'd wake up wanting to talk to his Mum. So he rented a flat in Ottery St Catchpole, something with one bedroom and a little kitchen and a Floo connection to the Burrow, above a millinery on the main street. It had a skylight above the bed, which was good, because Charlie really missed the sky.

He still spent a lot of his time at home, tinkering around in the shed with Dad and holding George's hand where it stuck out from under his duvet for hours and hours on end. But his flat helped.

Harry kissed Charlie first, when he'd been home for almost a year. It was New Years Eve, and Harry was drunk. Charlie was drunk too, but Harry was eighteen and Charlie was twenty-four, so he decided to be responsible.

"Harry."

"Just— let me."

"Not tonight."

"Another time?"

"We can talk about it when you're sober."

"Don't really want to talk about it."

They had, though. Charlie told Harry he didn't want a boyfriend. That he'd be going back to Romania before the end of the year. Harry said that was okay, because neither did he. 

When Ron found out, he said something like, "I don't give a fuck. Ginny might, though. Kind of weird." 

Ginny didn't though, even though Ron was right and it was weird. It was just that no one seemed to really see the point in getting miffed over Harry and Charlie finding some kind of temporary comfort in each other, when much worse things had happened not very long ago. 

So Charlie and Harry started shagging. Quite a lot. Harry split his time between the Burrow, Charlie's flat, and Grimmauld, where he lived with Ron and Hermione. Well, sort of. The three of them slept there, but that was pretty much it. 

Charlie really liked shagging Harry. He was young and inexperienced, but he was also a quick learner. The sex was great, and if it wasn't it was fun, and all in all it was a brilliant distraction. 

Harry could be all bright when he was properly happy, all sarcasm and beautiful golden skin. On good days they'd fuck in the kitchen, on the bench. In the shower, on the balcony (just once) or pressed up against a wall. On bad days Harry would come over in the evenings. He was usually quiet, but sometimes he'd talk after they fucked — always in the bed, when he was like that. 

Charlie told Harry he was leaving on Boxing Day. He'd meant to go in November, but Mum had convinced him to stay for Christmas. That ended up being the right thing to do, but still. Charlie missed his home. He missed his dragons, and big planes of hills and sky and nothing. He missed his work. He knew he'd miss Harry though, too. 

"I'll miss you."

Harry laughed. "You'll be shagging some fit young stable boy within a month."

"Yes, but I'll still miss you. Visit?"

Harry said he would — he did once, with Ron. They didn't fuck, but they did talk. It was nice. Charlie had missed talking to Harry.

*

Christmas at the Burrow is one of Harry’s favourite things in the world, and it’s at its best when every last Weasley is there. Charlie hadn’t been, the last two years — probably for the best, since he, Harry, had been with Nat. And for some reason, the prospect of Charlie and Natalie interacting (because she had joined him at the Burrow for Christmas) was less than appealing. The tension between her and Ginny had been bad enough. 

So Harry’s excited to see him. And he’s excited to enjoy the holiday without the weight of relationship anxiety dragging him down. 

Charlie’s supposed to be coming tomorrow, on Christmas, but Harry knows he’ll sneak in tonight. He's predictably unpredictable like that.

So he waits outside for him on the back steps, in the dark and the cold while Molly gets dinner ready. And when there’s the crack of Apparition after he's been waiting an hour, and he sees Charlie appear out of thin air, Harry smiles at him wryly. 

“Knew you’d show up tonight,” he says from the steps. He looks good, as usual; there’s a bandage on his arm, probably from a bad burn. The comfort of his presence is immediate and profound. “George set up a trap for you, by the way. I’d go round the front if I were you and didn’t want my hair strangling me.”

*

"Georgie always did have such a juvenile sense of humour," Charlie says, but privately he's happy to hear it. George usually slips a bit around the holidays. "Come here. Give us a cuddle."

*

It’s not easy for Harry, being physically affectionate, sometimes especially in a platonic sense. Charlie knows that — he also knows Harry _wants_ the hug, but won’t do it himself unless he’s been drinking or Charlie invites him to do it.

He stands and goes to him and puts his arms around Charlie, fingers pressed into his back, nose pressed to his shoulder. Quite a lot of tension leaves him.

“How long are you staying?” he asks when he pulls back, a little regretfully.

*

"Just a few days," says Charlie. "Mum wants me to stay a week at least, but I can't miss New Years on the ranch. Fucking incredible. You should come, one year."

*

Harry tries not to be disappointed. He also tries to remind himself that it would have been stupid anyway, to let himself get carried away on New Years and shag Charlie. Fun to think about, but dumb. And unrealistic. Charlie’s like Ginny: they both have that dominating sense of logic that overrides even their strongest emotions and allows them to make good decisions in the heat of the moment.

“I will,” he says, and means it. He loves seeing Charlie with his dragons. “Maybe I’ll come in January too. Kinda need to get the fuck out of here for a while, I think.”

*

Charlie got pretty good at reading Harry, so he can tell he's a little miffed at that. Charlie is too, really — Harry turned out to be a brilliant fuck and he's looking fitter than ever. It's for the best, though.

"Oh? Listen, Harry, I've gotta go say hi to everyone, but wait here, yeah? I reckon we've an hour or so before dinner. Can go for a quick fly and catch up."

*

“Yeah,” says Harry, looking back at the house. He hates that he feels the tug of irrational jealousy or irritation or _whatever_ it is, having to share Charlie with the whole family. “Definitely. Erm — I’ll be. Yeah. Out here.” He takes a joint from behind his ear. “Don’t take too long.”

*

Charlie says, "Course," and gives Harry a clap on the shoulder when he passes.

He heads around the front, and Molly's there snipping herbs from the pots on the window. He's usually only grateful for the way he's become all broad and muscled because blokes seem to really like it, but around the holidays it saves him the whole you're-far-too-thin maternal fretting thing that Mum inflicts upon the rest of the brood. So that's nice, too. She just drops her wand when she sees him, and pulls him into her and pets at his hair.

Dad's out with Bill trying to find a trifle bowl at the last minute. Percy's reading over by the hearth, and he gives Charlie an awkward little hug and says he hopes he's well. George looks vaguely disappointed when he sees that Charlie's hair isn't wound about his neck, and Ginny hugs him properly and says, "Ron says Harry's a bit out of sorts. Be careful."

Ron himself is sitting at the kitchen table with Hermione and Rose, and little Teddy Lupin. Teddy's on Hermione's knee, and Rose is in his arms.

Hermione says, "Gentle with her head, yep, good job, Teds."

Ron looks at her all kind of adoringly, and Charlie decides it's a scene he probably shouldn't interrupt and that he'll say hi to them both later.

He heads back outside to find Harry watching smoke furl above him, and looking just as Ginny said. Out of sorts.

He says, "Shall we go?"

*

Harry waits in the cold when Charlie goes inside to say hi to his family, with his joint and his his light jacket and his glasses constantly fogging up, and when Charlie comes back out he nods towards the broom shed. “Let’s do it,” he says, and he offers the joint out. “You want?”

*

Charlie passes the spliff back after a nice long drag. Mum'll do her nut when she smells the stuff on him (she can always tell, even after a good Scourgify), but he's 31 now, so fuck it.

"What're you riding these days?" he asks, rifling around in the shed and picking out two of Ginny's nicest training brooms.

*

"Same as before," says Harry. He takes one last hit, tosses it in the air, and Vanishes it before it hits the ground. "I still like the Moonraker. Nothing's come out the last two years to rival it. For me, at least," he amends, taking the extra broom from Charlie. "The Harpies are using the new Stratus model, Ginny says she likes it. I've tried it — it's fast, but it's not dynamic enough, know what I mean? You can go as fast as you want, all you're gonna do is pelt yourself into the stands if you can't make a sharp turn at the last second."

*

Charlie wonders if Harry knows how hot it is when he does stuff like that; talks about brooms and tosses his spliff. He probably doesn’t. He’s always been woefully ignorant on the subject of his own attractiveness.

“Fuck, Harry, don’t. I’m resolved not to shag you.”

*

Harry looks at him, surprised, and then laughs. "What exactly am I doing?"

*

“Being hot,” says Charlie, and kicks off from the ground.

*

It's what he's needed, Harry realises suddenly. Something that doesn't take a lot of effort, and feels good but not scary, and intimate without pressure. He accepts the compliment (for that's what it's meant to be, although it's extremely hard for him to take it seriously, because he does not in any universe think of himself as _hot_ ) with a short roll of his eyes and kicks off as well.

He speeds off to the west without a word, knowing Charlie will follow and enjoying the freedom in that. It's not a long ride: he chooses one of the taller hills that overlooks the town of Ottery St Catchpole and all its twinkling lights, pretty enough to go on one of those Christmas cards he remembers Aunt Petunia always placing round the house before he went off to Hogwarts.

When he hops off he lets the broom fall into the snow and looks at Charlie, cold hands in his pockets. "You know, I'm not seeing Nat anymore," he blurts out. And he's glad his cheeks are already red from the wind and the cold. "They probably told you."

*

Charlie hasn’t been back home since Rose was born almost a year ago, but Ron had told him about Harry’s rather explosive break up with his girlfriend a few weeks after it happened. From what he heard in the time they were together, Charlie’s never liked the sound of the woman, but he’s tried his best to keep that him to himself.

He nods slowly. “They did. That’s, er, I’m sorry about that.”

*

"It's fine, I know no one liked her," he says sardonically. "The whole thing was fucked up. I dunno. I'm glad it happened, but. I'm glad it's over." He kicks some snow and mentally tries to prepare himself for bringing up the other thing he wants to talk about, but he can't get the words out yet. "Are you seeing anyone?" he asks instead.

* 

Charlie briefly considers fighting him on that, but from what Ron and Ginny said, it’s quite accurate. 

“Nah,” he says. “Was shagging one of the other handlers for a bit, but nothing serious. You? Since her, I mean.”

* 

There's a part of Harry that will always be a little bit in awe of Charlie, and that part is curious who the handler is that he was shagging.

Charlie wasn't his first — he'd lost it to Ginny, about a week after the end of the war. And after they'd broken up only a few months in (a drawn-out affair, but they'd survived it), he'd slept with a few random people until Charlie came home and captivated Harry completely.

It was good, because it had an end in sight. And it was Charlie, a Weasley, Ron's brother he'd never _really_ had a chance to get to know, and that made him safe and familiar. They'd bonded over Seeking and a shared sense of humour and eventually sex. And he'd known it was temporary, but Harry had still gotten a bit attached. Charlie was hard not to get attached to.

In answer to the question, Harry merely shakes his head. Then he shrugs, and says, "It's complicated." He swallows. "I don't think you've ever met Draco Malfoy, have you? Lucius Malfoy's son?"

*

Charlie's not sure if Harry thinks he's being subtle, but either way, he's really, really not. He keeps his face as passive as he can (and it's difficult not only because he knows what Harry's getting at, but also because mention of Lucius Malfoy has always made his blood boil since he learned the role the bastard played in Ginny's near death) and says, "No, never had the pleasure."

*

The clipped tone makes Harry tense. A hand goes to the back of his neck and he watches Charlie's face, trying to examine his expressions in the weak light of the town's glow.

"Well," says Harry bluntly, "I fucked him. Kind of."

*

"I see," Charlie says. He's heard all manner of things about Draco Malfoy over the years. The kid sounds like a fucking twerp, and, of course, Charlie knows he was a Death Eater. He also knows he was sixteen when he became one, and he really does try to be understanding about these kinds of things. "Drunk, were you?"

*

"Nope. Stuck in a lift." He kicks some more snow around, eyes to the ground. "We have a bit of a history, he and I." And now he looks up again, pinning Charlie with his gaze. "D'you think less of me for it?"

*

 _Stuck in a lift_. Wow. Charlie kind of wants to frown at Harry, and kind of wants to high five him. "Harry," he says. "Mate, of course not."

*

"Right." Harry believes him, but only because Charlie's not really the type of person to lie about it. "Let me ask you something, then. If ... if you have this person you'd hated the entire time you knew them in school. Who hated you probably even more, and there was so, _so_ _so_ much shit between you, like a mountain of it, d'you think anything between you and that person has to be inherently toxic? Unhealthy? I mean ..." he licks his lips, "d'you think that's just bad soil at that point?"

*

Charlie sighs and wandlessly clears a patch of snow for him and Harry to sit. Harry’s always been either frustratingly evasive or completely blunt. Looks like it’s the latter, tonight. “I dunno. It’s— there’s so many shades of grey. I mean, people can do stupid shit, like, really bad shit, doesn’t necessarily mean they’re all bad. Look at Perce,” he says, even though it makes his gut twist a bit. “But on the other hand, didn’t the kid like, poison Ron? His dad tried to kill you. And, shit, I’m not saying any of this to make you feel bad, or whatever, but I guess you’ve just really gotta think about whether you can properly forgive him for that. If you can’t, I’d say yeah. Bad foundations.”

*

It’s hard for him, but Harry stays silent while Charlie talks. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Ron and Hermione and Ginny and everyone else, but there’s a calm rationality about Charlie, a willingness to listen rather than posit conclusions, that Harry really respects and puts a lot of stock in. And beyond that, it’s kind of nice that Charlie doesn’t know Malfoy. 

“Does it have to be about forgiveness, though?” he says after a few moments. “Why can’t it be about ... I dunno. Accepting the past. Dumbledore told me ...” He sighs, shoves his fingers through his hair. “He said that remorse is really important. If ..." _If remorse could have healed Voldemort's soul, surely it can do something for Malfoy_. "Maybe I’m not in any position to forgive Malfoy anything. Maybe it’s about him feeling remorseful for what he did, and me choosing to focus on the fact that he even _feels_ remorse rather than all the horrible things he did back then.” He pauses and feels his stomach do an uncomfortable jolt, a nauseating feeling rising in his throat. “I’m completely infatuated, Charlie.”

*

“Oh,” Charlie says gently. “What do you mean by that?”

*

“I mean, like. I can’t stop thinking about him,” he admits quietly. “And when I do, I just ... I feel sick. It’s like a constant battle, trying not to go see him again.”

*

Fuck. Harry looks so completely forlorn that Charlie is really very hesitant to give him anything other than reassurance, but the things he’s saying ... they don’t sound good, exactly. “Mate, I dunno what to tell you. I— is it more of a physical thing, or do you actually like the bloke?”

*

“I don’t even know him, really,” says Harry. “I don’t see how I can like someone I don’t know. Maybe it is a physical thing.” He doesn’t think so. It feels more substantial than that, but it’s too hard to explain. “I wish you’d stay. You’re good for me, you know?”

*

Charlie laughs and beckons Harry closer so he can put his arm around him. “I did think about staying for a year or two longer, because of you. I’m not sure I told you that. But I don’t think it would’ve been smart to keep occupying ourselves with something that wasn’t going anywhere.”

*

The weight of Charlie's arm is a presence he's missed. He thinks it might even be possible, if Charlie were less of a noncommittal person, to put the Malfoy thing away for good, never to be revisited.

"It doesn't have to not go anywhere," Harry says bluntly, looking over at him. "And I was never just occupying myself. I had feelings for you."

*

“Don’t be daft,” Charlie says. “I didn’t mean that. Course I had feelings for you. It’s just— well, it was a bit of a distraction from the real world, wasn’t it?”

*

"No," Harry says simply. "It wasn't. Not for me. But I guess with your life in Romania I can see how it'd feel that way for you." Which, yeah, that hurts a bit. He doesn't resent it — he knows Charlie doesn't mean it in a hurtful way —but still.

*

Charlie takes his arm off Harry’s shoulders so he can rest his head in both hands. “Harry, c’mon. You’re a lot younger than me. I live on a fucking ranch in Romania. Yeah, I fell in love with you a bit but we were both so fucked up then, so soon after everything that happened. It wouldn’t have lasted. Don’t you think you’re romanticising, like, just a little cause of all this stuff with Malfoy?”

*

Harry doesn't say anything at first. It sounds like something Hermione would tell him — erring on the side of logic instead of emotion. He wonders sometimes if the Sorting Hat had thought about putting Charlie in Ravenclaw, like Hermione, but he's never asked.

"If I was," he says eventually, "would it matter? I'm really good when I'm with you. Mentally, I mean. I feel less—" he gropes for the right word, considering carefully "—untethered. And I'm not trying — I'm not saying I'm some kind of — like it's your responsibility. Or something. I just mean ... it's easier. All of it." He gestures vaguely, encompassing everything he's ever confided to Charlie in the impelling darkness of night. "Not everything lasts. You can't just not do stuff 'cause it'll end someday."

*

Harry’s being stubborn. He should’ve expected it. “What’re you saying? You want to start things back up between us?”

*

"No," Harry says automatically. He stands up, realising suddenly that being too close is probably not a good idea. "I just ... I dunno. I was just saying."

Truthfully, he doesn't know what the fuck he wants. He knows he's still thinking about Malfoy right now, but he does love Charlie. And some part of him does very much want to try an actual relationship with him, even though he's right and it would likely not last long simply because he wouldn't be happy here in London, and Harry can't leave.

*

Charlie knows pushing it will only make Harry feel worse, so he doesn't. Instead, he says, "Before you said it was really hard to not go and see him."

*

"It is," he says. "But I'm not going to. I mean, he's not interested. I don't need to be wasting my time on people who aren't interested."

*

The way Ron tells it, Harry chased his ex for a month or so before they actually got together. Perhaps that's the reason he's so resolute about it now. "Did he tell you that?"

*

"He's told me to fuck off enough times," says Harry sarcastically. "Does that count?"

*

"S'pose so. Prickly fuck, is he? Like his dad?"

*

Harry looks at Charlie, hesitating. It feels weird to try and describe Malfoy to someone who's never met him. "Yeah," he says slowly. "But not— he's not _like_ Lucius. At all. He spent a lot of time wishing he was. But he's not." Harry shoves his hands in his pockets. "I told him I don't hate him and he said he doesn't know how to talk to me. I don't even know what the hell that means."

*

"I think it probably means what it sounds like. If the two of you have been going at each other ever since you met, I can see how that would be hard to shake."

*

Yeah. Hard to shake.

"Whatever," Harry says. "I'm tired of chasing people. It was fun with Natalie, at first. It distracted me from you leaving. But I'm not doing that again. Especially not with Malfoy. Hermione's right: it's not healthy."

*

"So, what?" says Charlie. "You're just going to forget about him?"

*

Harry frowns at him. “D’you have a different suggestion?”

*

"No. No, I just don't think— it doesn't seem very, fuck no offence mate, but it doesn't seem likely, the way you're talking about him."

*

"Meaning what?" Harry says, and there's a sharpness to his voice he immediately regrets. "I mean, what are my choices?"

*

He snaps a bit, but Charlie could've expected that. He knows how much Harry hates being counselled. He likes being handled like a delicate thing even less, though, so Charlie tries to be as frank as possible. "One last red hot go at it, I guess. I dunno. It's up to you, obviously, but you seem kind of in too deep to just deny it."

*

"I'm not denying anything. I'm saying it's pointless and there's nothing to do about it if he's not interested." He Summons his broom silently, half of him wanting to get the fuck out of here and away from this conversation that snowballed into something he hadn't meant for, the other half wishing they could could skip dinner and stop talking about Malfoy and snog for a while. "We should get back."

*

Charlie sighs and drops his neck back so he can watch Harry from the ground. "Don't be stroppy with me. I'm only here for a few days, sit a minute."

*

Harry rolls his eyes and for a second only tightens his grip on the broom. Then (with a terrible clench in his gut) he realises it just isn't fucking worth it to be annoyed (over Malfoy, no less) when Charlie's right — he'll be gone in a few days, even though Harry doesn't want him to be.

He drops the broom and sits down beside him again. Softly, he says, "What?"

*

Harry's so pretty. Charlie's thought so ever since he saw him at Bill's wedding (before he Polyjuiced into another Weasley sprog, of course), looking very serious and much older than he really was.

"Mind if I kiss you?" he says, because Harry had become more attractive in the months they spent together, less drawn and grey, less lanky and more wiry, and he's only gotten more so since. Soft lips, proper cheekbones. Beautiful eyes and long lashes. Charlie has a thing, for eyelashes. “Don’t mean to take advantage, you just, you know. Seem like you could use a good snog.”

*

Harry laughs, mostly at how stupid the situation is. He'd thought they would at least have gotten drunk before this started happening. He'd also thought he'd end up being the one initiating it, but Charlie's looking at him like he used to when they were shagging all the time, and it's nice, regardless of what happens later, not to have to exert energy to have something he wants. He wonders whether that's exactly why Charlie's doing it, and he doesn't care if he is.

"Only if you promise not to get attached," he says. "You're leaving in a few days."

*

Charlie says, "I'll try my hardest," and takes Harry's jaw in his hand.

*

Harry lets himself be pulled into the kiss much too gratefully. He's missed this, kissing Charlie, but he's also missed doing this with _anyone_. The lift with Malfoy had been so rushed and clumsy and he hadn't finished, notably, and Charlie has warm hands and feels familiar when Harry pulls him down on top of him.

*

Harry's a better kisser than he was at nineteen, which, yeah, you'd probably hope so, but he's a lot better. Spectacular, even. Familiar and different, and Charlie's hard because Harry's fist is bunched in his shirt, tugging him closer, but also because his mouth is yielding and his tongue soft when it licks into his.

*

When he feels Charlie hard against his hip, Harry thinks _fuck, this is stupid_ even as he presses up into it, rubbing his own erection against Charlie's leg. God, it's been forever. _Forever_ since he's gotten off with anyone. He shifts and lifts his hips again and groans when their cocks brush. "Shit," he breathes. His other hand finds purchase on Charlie's shoulder. "Charlie, I'm not gonna last long."

*

“Good,” Charlie says. “Yes, Harry, good.” He’s about a hair’s breadth from coming as well, even though he usually has more stamina. He usually does, but not so much with Harry.

*

Harry strains and makes a noise in his throat and digs his nails into Charlie's shoulder. Then he lets go, gets his hand between them and pops the button on his jeans. "Touch me," he says, getting his fingers around himself and shuddering. "Please."

*

Fuck, but Charlie loves it when Harry says things like that. He sounds so vulnerable, and so kind of friable and open. He nips at the soft hem of Harry’s shoulder, and reaches between them so he can stroke his cock. “Yeah?”

*

“Yeah, good,” Harry agrees mindlessly. It’s like Charlie’s touching every frayed nerve, every tense and strained and overworked piece of himself that he’s gotten used to ignoring lately. He tilts his head back and presses up into the heavily-calloused grip on his cock, the lips on his neck, unable to feel the hard ground or the cold. There’s a part of him, just below the fog of his need, that understands Charlie is doing this for him because he knows he needs it. That nothing will be magically solved afterwards, and Charlie certainly won’t be staying. But it doesn’t matter: he does need it, and he wants it from Charlie instead of whatever random person he’d have found somewhere else just to take the edge off. “Fuck,” he groans, trying to fuck the fist around his leaking cock, “Charlie. I’m close.”

*

“Come for me, then.”

*

Harry closes his eyes and arches and gives into the pull of his body, letting the pleasure turn his insides to liquid and falling gratefully into an orgasm that hits that elusive peak and makes his hips stutter. It’s harder than he’s come in months, completely ridding his body of tension for a few moments as he rides the crest of it and then drifts back down with his limbs tingling a bit. He tugs Charlie down by the shirt into another kiss that’s sloppy while he tries to catch his breath.

“Want me to finish you off?” he says, voice scratchy.

*

“S’alright,” Charlie says, kissing up Harry’s cheekbone and onto the shell of his ear before he rolls off him. “I’m good.” He’s hard as a fucking rock, he’ll definitely need a minute before he can get on a broom, but ultimately he wanted to make Harry feel good, and he’s done that. Plus, they really must be late for dinner by now.

*

Charlie’s refusal isn’t really surprising. Disappointing a little, but not surprising. Harry nods, tucks himself back in, Vanishes the mess, and decides to get in one last kiss before the whole moment is over and everything else ends with it. This is the last time they’ll do this — he can feel that in his gut.

“Right,” he says. He stands and offers his hand out to help Charlie up as well. “S’pose we should probably go back. Your mum’s gonna be pissed.”

*

"Mum's always pissed. C'mon, we can race back."

*

Molly scolds them when they walk inside (as they’d known she would) but does so as she ushers them around the table to join everyone else. Harry takes a spot between Ron and Ginny and is glad to find that he’s ravenous, not to mention in better spirits than before.

“Quit looking at me like that,” he says under his breath to Ron, “eat your potatoes.”

*

Charlie knows he's subjected himself to an inquisition by his siblings the minute he sits down at the table. They won't say anything in front of Mum and Dad and Teddy, but they'll sure as hell corner him and Harry after dinner. Whatever. It was quite worth it, in his opinion.

He's found himself next to Hermione, and she's always great for a chat, always wanting to know about his work and the studies he's written on dragon welfare, which he's always surprised to hear she's actually read, so dinner is a lovely affair. By the time Molly serves the pudding, he's got his niece in his arms, Teddy's turned his hair red, and Harry's looking properly happy and a little bit drunk, with his feet up on Ron's lap.

*

Full and a little drunk and warm from the fire, Harry can’t remember the last time he’d had such a nice Christmas Eve. He feels surprisingly content about the way things panned out with Charlie and he likes watching him now with Rose and Hermione.

Not even five minutes pass after Molly and Arthur retire to bed that Ron says, “Alright, spit it out. You two,” he points at Harry and then Charlie, “mind telling us why you were late?”

“Ron, shut up!” Ginny says hotly. “Merlin, you’re so nosey. It’s none of your business.”

*

Ron says, “It is fucking so.”

Percy says, “I’ll be upstairs,” mutters something about immaturity and juvenile squabbling, and excuses himself from the table.

Charlie says, “We were catching up. Reminiscing, you know,” and George snorts a laugh and whacks Ron on the back of the head.

*

"Yeah, he wanted to race me," says Harry. He gives Charlie a shit-eating grin. "I won. He's getting a bit old, aren't you, Charlie?"

*

Charlie smirks back at him, cause he know it'll make Ron dirty. "I think you'll find that everything's still in perfect working order."

* * *

It's weird still, without Fred. It gets easier not to think about him all day and the pain has numbed out a bit, but it's always weird. And Christmas is the worst.

It's the worst not only because he misses Freddie so much he was physically ill a few times throughout the day, but because everyone looks at him. They try not to, and he appreciates no one bringing it up, but he can feel their sympathetic gazes on his back and it just makes him feel lonely.

Ron's good, though. Surprisingly enough, he's actually been the most helpful. Having him at the store to take Freddie's place wound up being the best possible decision for a lot of reasons: Ron's enjoying it, for one. And he's got a real knack for running a business, too. The other thing is that of all their brothers, Ron was always closest to him and Fred. Ginny too, but she's off playing Quidditch and is far too energetic and ambitious to like running a joke shop.

Lastly, Ron's good at giving him space when he wants it, and more importantly, being there when he needs it, even when he doesn't know how to ask for it. Like tonight.

He stays downstairs in the living room after everyone else has finally gone up to bed, and he's not surprised when, ten minutes later, Ron comes back down as well.

"Come now, Ronnie," George says, "you need your sleep or you'll be cranky on Christmas morning."

*

“Shut up,” Ron says, because George is right, and he is tired. Last year he’d stayed up with Hermione because she was going through the worst of her pregnancy nausea, and then been so out of sorts the next morning that he received an Official Scolding from his mum. But that’s neither here nor there. “Move your feet so I can sit.”

*

George smirks. He lifts his feet obligingly but then brings them back down on Ron's lap. "What's the haps, little brother?"

*

George’s always been perpetually droll, but since Fred died his humour has taken on this kind of satiric self derision that’s very dry and often makes Mum look anxious.

Ron isn’t sure he likes it either. George still makes everyone laugh, but everything he says sounds so sardonic and detached. It’s weird.

“Hermione’s snoring. Rose went off easy for the first time in weeks, so she pretty much passed out straight away.”

*

"A Christmas Miracle, as it were," says George. He can feel the subject hanging in the air between them, unspoken but very present. And George wants to talk about it — about him. Fred. Christmas is a good time to remember him. It's just hard to get started.

"So. D'you reckon Harry and Charlie shagged?"

*

Ron decides to indulge him, just for a bit. “Tragically I do. Both looked much too happy when they came in, didn’t they?”

*

George makes a face. He doesn't actually care, obviously. It was weird at first, especially because of Ginny and that situation, but in the end he was happy they were happy. Still, he likes to be a bit of a child about it, for fun.

"I dunno how Ginny does it. It'd be too weird for me," he says. "I thought Harry was doing the Malfoy thing again. A reprisal act. You talk him out of that finally?"

*

“It is weird. It’s _weird_. And fuck,” Ron sighs. “Let’s not go there. You just worry about what you’re gonna say when Harry inevitably puts the moves on you, next.”

*

George bursts into laughter and kicks him lightly in the ribs. "Yeah, you're not kidding." His smile softens a little and he lets out a sigh. "Woulda gone for Freddie first if he was around. He was always the looker. Of course, I was the brains."

*

Ron’s stomach twists. “George,” he says. “If you wanna talk about it, we can.”

*

"I know," George says, trying for a light tone. "Just been thinking about how it's five Christmases without him. Feels like longer, doesn't it?"

*

Hermione’s one for talking about feelings, never letting things fester, so Ron’s spent a lot of time pondering the distortion of time after grief with her. To him, that first year after the battle stretched out interminably, and those after that, with the wedding, the pregnancy, a literal, actual child, have gone very quickly indeed.

He can tell George is trying to keep things a bit surfacy, though, so he just says, “Yeah.”

*

"He'd have taken the absolute piss out of you for getting married and having a bloody kid before you're twenty-five. Completely unforgivable, Ron."

*

Ron yawns. “Yeah, right, like you haven’t done that enough for the both of you.”

*

George snickers. "It's my duty, now he's gone."

There's a brief silence filled in by the sound of the wind outside and the crackling fire. A creak of wood upstairs, probably Ginny, not yet asleep. It smells like pine and gingerbread and his childhood, which is both wonderfully nostalgic and very sad.

"You know, he'd also tell you he's really proud of you," he says a bit more quietly. "It's been pretty cool, watching you with Rosie. I always thought it'd be Percy having kids next."

*

"Didn't we all? Nah, you know, I reckon I owed it to Harry to give Hermione a kid she could fuss over instead of him," Ron says.

*

"Yeah," George laughs. "Guess so. Probably good she does, though, if you ask me. He never really stopped being a bit of a loose cannon."

*

Ron rolls his eyes. “Yeah, cheers to that. Wish Fred could’ve heard about the Malfoy thing, he’d have knocked some sense into Harry right quick.”

*

"It won't last," says George. "You told me not to say anything to him or I would've already. I mean, I know Natalie was kind of a stone cold bitch but I will literally kill Harry if he makes me interact with that little ferret post-Hogwarts. I'm kinda hoping Charlie talked him out of it."

*

“Thank your fucking stars he hasn’t got your wife fooled, too,” Ron says. He doesn’t really mean it, because as if a slimy prat like Malfoy could ever pull one over on Hermione, but whatever. He’s ranting. “Even when Harry inevitably gets over the fact that he’s, you know, blond and an arsehole and therefore exactly his type, I’m still at risk of coming home to find Malfoy sitting at my kitchen table. Fuck me. And fat chance, since when has anyone ever been able to talk Harry out of anything?”

*

George's grimace grows as Ron talks, highly averse to the idea of visiting his niece only to find a Malfoy haunting the place whenever Harry's there.

"Yeah, sure, he's a stubborn git, but he's moon-eyed over Charlie, everyone knows he is. If anyone can talk him out of a bad thing, it's probably him. Or Ginny," he muses. "I don't get it. You'd think Malfoy would just be bad memories for him. I couldn't look at that Dark Mark, Ron, I'd lose my fucking head."

*

"Harry's weird like that though, isn't he? He's all sort of ambiguous about Malfoy ever since he almost killed him in sixth year."

*

"Ambiguous," George echoes, frowning. "Meaning ... what? You think this is a long time coming?"

*

Ron tips his head back over the edge of the couch and groans. "I dunno. Christ, I've talked about Malfoy more in the last couple of weeks than I can fucking stand. Can't do it anymore."

*

With a snort, George pulls his legs in finally. "Yeah, alright. Don't wanna give you nightmares or anything." He nudges him with his foot again, this time in the leg. It's time for Ickle Ronnie to get to bed. "Good talk, little brother. For real. Thanks."

* * *

Ginny likes being the youngest child for many reasons, principle of which is that it means she can usually skive off chores pretty easily. Right now, for instance, Ron and Bill are trying to get Teddy and Victoire away from their presents long enough to have breakfast (fuck, they’re cute and all, but she’s never having kids), and Mum’s wrangled George and Perce into chopping potatoes and whipping cream, and she’s sitting on the couch, with Harry by her side.

*

Harry's tried to help — there's _so much_ going on, and he loves it, the flurry of activity, but wow, it truly is utter chaos — but as everyone keeps telling him they've got a handle on it and he doesn't need to worry, he's found himself in the living room with Ginny. Which is nice, actually. It hasn't been just the two of them in a while.

"Gin," he says, stretching his arms above his head and yawning, "promise me you won't have kids until these ones get a bit older."

*

“Can’t make that promise, dear boy. Don’t think I’ll ever have them, so.”

*

It's not the first Harry's heard of Ginny's aversion to having kids and he's quite proud of her for the dedication she has to her ambitious goals. He'll watch her in the Quidditch World Cup someday soon, he's absolutely sure of it. Molly won't like the lack of offspring, but then again, it's not as if she's _lacking_.

"For the best," he says. "Any children of yours would be extremely defiant."

*

Ginny takes that as a compliment. “Good thing we broke up. Our offspring at Hogwarts would’ve been the death of McGonagall, I’m sure.”

*

"Yeah," Harry laughs softly, only it gains a bit of traction when he actually thinks about it. "Yeah, that would've been pretty bad. To be fair, I wasn't breaking rules just for the hell of it, though. Everyone's always putting up red tape. If they just let me do what I needed to do, less rules would've been broken."

*

“Yes, of course, Harry. I can’t imagine what the professors were thinking when they told a bunch of twelve-year-olds to fuck off and let the grown ups handle the murderous snake man. Unconscionable.”

*

“I knew what I was doing!” he insists, though he’s still laughing. “Found you in the Chamber, didn’t I? And as far as I’m aware, at least, the murderous snake man is still dead. So. You’re welcome.”

*

“S’pose so,” says Ginny. She whacks Harry gently on the arm. “Anyway, saviour of worlds and vanquisher of snake men. How’s tricks? Aside from shagging my brother, I mean.”

*

He could tell Ginny he didn't actually shag Charlie, but explaining to her that her brother had simply pulled him off feels not quite appropriate, so he settles on an eye roll. Also, he knows where she's going with this.

"Just ask me about Malfoy, Gin," he says. "I know Hermione's told you."

*

“She has,” concedes Ginny. “But I’m sure you’re sick to death of talking about him by now.”

*

He's not, actually. Definitely sick to death of talking about the situation, but there's also a part of him that likes talking about Malfoy. Disgusting.

"Completely," he says anyway. "So give me your mandatory spiel and be done with it, yeah?"

*

“No spiel,” Ginny says. From the kitchen, Mum’s reprimanding Charlie for the size of his julienned carrot sticks. “Just curious.”

*

Harry lifts an eyebrow. "About?"

*

In truth, Ginny’s curious about a lot of things. How exactly it happened (because ‘they were stuck in a lift’ really isn’t an adequate explanation, in her opinion), how long Harry’s had a thing for Malfoy, how he can set aside all the stuff that’s happened between them. She doesn’t ask any of that, though. “How you are, I guess. You seemed happier last night but you were in a right mood earlier.”

*

It’s typical Ginny, really. So typical he actually laughs, and remembers why he’d liked her so much when he was sixteen. Because Ginny won’t ask for details, for the why and how, even if she does want to know. She won’t pry, or be nosey, or go anywhere near a lecture. Just ‘how are you’.

“You’d be in a mood too if you were having a Malfoy crisis,” he says drily. “But I’m ... you know. Fine. Trying to make some decisions. Figure some things out.” He looks over at her, says, “I’ve earned a few mistakes, haven't I?”

*

“Course,” Ginny says. She’s extremely iffy on Malfoy as a person, but she kind of likes that Harry is doing something for himself and himself only. “But I would never have a Malfoy crisis,” she adds. “I’m far too well-adjusted.”

*

"True," Harry agrees. "I"m really not very well-adjusted." It's a joke, but it's also not a joke. And it's not one he'd have made in front of most other people, who would have taken it much too seriously. "I'll be alright, though. If it makes you feel any better, I doubt anything will happen on that front."

*

Ginny rolls her eyes. She'd put her hand on his shoulder, but she knows Harry can be a little skittish when it comes to touch. "Harry, I really couldn't give less of a shit. If you wanna fuck Malfoy, go for it. Even I can admit he's far too fit for his own good. I just want you to do what you want to do, you know?" 

* 

Harry laughs, oddly relieved. He still doesn’t think he’s going to do anything about it — he’d meant it when he told Charlie he wasn’t going to chase anyone anymore, including Malfoy. But it’s nice to have someone’s blessing. 

“Too fit for his own good is exactly right,” he says. “I just don’t think—“

”Harry!” Mrs Weasley calls from the kitchen. “Ginny! Come have breakfast before it’s all gone!”

He looks and Ginny and for a split second thinks he might finish his sentence, tell her that he doesn’t think he could do just a quick fuck with Malfoy. There’s something more there that he wants, but it’s quite scary to think about that. 

“After you,” he says instead, gesturing towards the kitchen. He likes the eye roll Ginny gives him before she stands up. 


	8. The Rooftop

It's a complete nightmare of a situation, to put it bluntly. Ron hasn't _really_ begun going back to work just yet, mostly because Hermione's been fretting about it, but when Heidi (the store's assistant manager) Floo-ed this morning in a panic rambling about George having an allergic reaction to a new product he was testing and Tess, the manager, being completely unreachable on her day off, Ron had to say yes. So Hermione had come home around eleven, in the middle of a shift at the hospital, while Ron went to take over at the store, and after calling nearly every one of their friends who she thought might be available last minute and finding absolutely nobody able to watch Rosie until the late afternoon, she'd done what she had to do. Without telling Ron.

"Her bottles are all in the refrigerator," she tells Draco, opening it and showing him a top row filled with them. "All you have to do is warm it up. And please don't forget to test it on your wrist before you give it to her. You're _absolutely_ sure this isn't a problem, Draco? It won't be any later than six, I promise."

*

Draco said no when Granger asked him to watch the baby. He said no, and then Granger said please, and Draco said _no_ and then Granger kind of yelled at him, and now he’s here. With the child. 

It’s looking at him all cagily through the folds of the little orange (of course, bleh) blanket. It doesn’t trust him, probably, raised in a house constantly inhabited by Gryffindors and Weasleys. Which are synonymous. 

“I shall hold you to that,” Draco says. “A minute later, and I’ll have to take her with me to Blaise’s club. I’m expected at five past.”

*

"Nobody's expected at a club at a specific time," Hermione says dismissively. "If they were it wouldn't be a club, it would be an office." She moves a bit of blanket away from Rosie's face, coos at her, kisses her soft forehead. "I really do appreciate this. I swear I'll be home at six. Maybe even earlier if I can manage it."

She grabs her bag from the kitchen counter and looks around, as if something she's missing will present itself to her.

Nothing does.

"Well," she says. "I think that's everything. I told you where her nappies are, right?"

*

Draco opens his mouth to protest, you absolutely can be expected at a club at a specific time, especially when that club is Venus and that time is when the private rooms open, but she blows right past it. He just scowls, instead. He hasn’t seen her since before Christmas two weeks ago, and he hasn’t missed her. 

“Yes, you did, Granger. Although you needn’t worry if you hadn’t, because there’s this handy little spell — and I’m awfully surprised you haven’t heard of it — called _Accio_. I’ll teach it to you when you get back, if you like.”

*

Draco’s snippy tone only makes Hermione smile and she pats his cheek affectionately, just to see him pout. It’s endearingly different than that sneer he wore around Hogwarts. 

“You’re very funny,” she says. “Floo me if you need anything, alright? You’re a lifesaver.”

*

"Not funny," Draco murmurs, flicking at some lint on his sleeve (Blaise is always returning his things in the most appalling condition) as Granger bustles through the Floo. "Not funny, but sarcastic. Devastatingly witty."

He turns to the child, nestled in her basinet beside the kitchen table. "What now?"

* * *

Harry steps out of the Floo into Ron and Hermione’s house and brushes the ash off of the files he’s holding. He doesn’t actually know for sure Hermione’s home but he’d decided to try here just in case, since she can be rather testy while she’s fretting about at work and he doesn’t like to bother her. However, he’s not standing there two seconds before he hears crying from the other room and, resigning himself to Ron rather than Hermione, goes to the kitchen to find neither of his best mates but Draco Malfoy.

“What the fuck,” he says.

*

Draco looks up from Rose, squalling in his arms, when he hears Potter’s voice. At first he thinks he’s hallucinating, that the crying that kicked in about half an hour after Granger left and hasn’t stopped since has actually driven him properly insane. But then Potter steps forward, and sparkling relief fills him, because even though it’s Potter ( _Potter_ ) and that’s horrifying in a different way, all he can think right now it’s that it’s another person, thank god. 

Draco says, “Help.”

*

Harry’s not necessarily _good_ with Rose, but he’s not terrible either. When he’d first started hanging out with Teddy a lot after the war it had felt a bit foreign, handling a baby (he never had before), but at least he’d had that practice before Ron and Hermione decided to do the family thing. 

So yeah, he’s not a baby expert. But he’s decent, and at least Rose knows him. Ignoring the fact for now that Malfoy is for no immediately discernible here in their house with their child, he goes over to him and takes Rose, setting her over his shoulder and bouncing her gently.

“What the hell's going on?” he says, glad to hear the wails lowering in volume a little. “Where’s Ron?”

*

“Work,” Draco says. He shrugs, which probably looks like some display of bored indifference to Potter ( _Potter_ , who’s here and standing across from him), but is really just him loosening the knots of creeping panic in his shoulders. “Some emergency, or something. Not sure, wasn’t quite listening.”

*

Harry scoffs. His stomach is in, like, fifty knots but he’s trying _really_ hard not to let that show. “Emergency?” he echoes. “What— what emergency? Why would they call _you_ to watch Rose?"

*

“Ouch,” says Draco, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter. The child is quiet now, cooing over Potter’s shoulder. “And I think you’ll find the only _they_ involved in this, even I will concede, inadvisable decision, was Granger and her iron will. If the Weasel were aware of her treachery, I’m sure he would be here by now.”

*

Harry tries not to think about Malfoy looking good while he’s holding Ron’s child, since that feels somehow like a betrayal. Ron would definitely think so, anyway. 

“Right,” he says slowly. “D’you know what _kind_ of emergency happened? It’s nothing serious with George, is it?”

* 

“Granger didn’t seem too worried. Or, you know. Any more than usual.”

*

At that Harry rolls his eyes, but at Hermione, not Malfoy. Because yeah. He knows what he means.

“S’pose she figured I was working. It was nice of you,” he says, and clears his throat, “to come help out. Did she say when she’d be back?”

*

“Six,” Draco says, blowing past Potter’s pathetic attempt at niceties. “It’s stopped crying now, you can leave if you wish. I’m sure I can handle her for another two hours.”

*

Harry forces himself — _forces_ , with painful determination — not to be annoyed or upset by Malfoy’s curtness. Yes, it’s annoying. It’s very upsetting. He’s a huge git. But Harry’s not a teenager anymore, and one of his brand new adult coping skills is the art of compartmentalisation. Or it would be, if he was any good at it. 

“Probably don’t call her ‘it’ around Hermione,” Harry says. “And she’ll start up again the second I give her back to you." The proper reaction to being held by a Malfoy when you're but a defenceless infant. "I’ll stay if you think you can stomach my presence, I need to talk to Hermione anyway.”

*

Draco had assumed Potter was here to see Mr and Mrs Weasel, so he hasn’t yet bothered asking. “I didn’t say ‘it’,” he sniffs. “You must’ve misheard. And if you’re quite happy to stay, there’s no need for me to, is there?”

*

Harry lifts an eyebrow, smirking a bit. “Sort of tacky to leave, isn’t it?”

*

Draco spreads his arms. “That’s me, Potter. Very nouveau riche. Pass on my apologies, will you? Only, I’ve got an engagement soon after six.”

*

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have agreed to babysit if you couldn’t stay,” Harry says sardonically. “I can’t be tied here for two hours, Malfoy, I’m still on call. Go primp yourself the whole time for all I care but you can’t leave.”

*

“Granger was rather desperate,” Draco says. “And I do so like having people indebted to me. Besides, I’ve no need to primp. I merely thought I might spare both of us the indignity of each other’s company. No mind, if you’re so desperate for me to stay.”

*

On the verge of sniping back, Harry just manages to rein himself in. There’s no point letting Malfoy taunt him into yet another fight. “Why don’t you relax with the witty banter for a minute,” Harry says, “and make us some tea, yeah? I’m exhausted.”

*

Draco resents being told what to do, but he supposes, if they’re both stuck there, they may as well have some tea. He’ll just spit in Potter’s cup, or something.

“Fine,” he says, filling the kettle with a flick of his wand.

*

Harry sits down at the table, still holding Rose while she sucks her thumb next to his ear, and he watches Malfoy as he goes about making the tea. He'd expected to see him again at some point considering Hermione's his biggest fan now but not just the two of them, and certainly not under these circumstances. Harry wishes fervently he was less attractive.

"Thanks," he says when a cup is set down in front of him. "There's sugar in the cupboard over the sink, can you grab it?"

*

Draco _Accios_ the sugar and sets it on the table as he sits. “Anything else? Before I get too comfortable.”

*

"That's all," Harry says, smiling too-sweetly at him. "Really appreciate it, Malfoy." He dumps one small spoonful of sugar in his tea, stirs it, and is pleasantly surprised at the perfect temperature. Then again, Malfoy seems like a tea snob, so.

*

“Pleasure,” Draco drawls. He stirs a few teaspoons of sugar into his mug, and tries not to think about the situation he’s in, but instead how he’ll spin it into an amusing little anecdote for Pansy and Blaise later tonight. Not that Pansy will buy it, but whatever.

*

"Bit hedonistic, isn't that?" Harry says, grinning broadly now after watching Malfoy dump half the pot of sugar into his tea. "You could just pour the whole thing in, might be easier."

*

Very funny. Very very funny. “Ha ha,” Draco says. “Leave my tea alone, Potter. I’ve been kind enough not to comment on the appalling state of your hair.”

*

"Well you've already done that so many times, it wouldn't hold much weight." Rose fidgets a bit and Harry resettles her, a soothing hand on her back and one under her bum. And, to fill an awkward silence he can't stand, he says, "How were your, er, holidays?"

*

Draco lifts an eyebrow. “Splendid, thanks. Yours?”

*

"Pretty good, actually," Harry says. "My ex wasn't—" he cuts off, remembering that this is Malfoy, and busies himself with adjusting Rose again to cover his misstep. "It was just Hermione and the Weasleys and my godson Teddy, so it was nice. Rose's first Christmas and all."

*

“How merry,” Draco says. He sips his tea, and wonders what Potter was going to say about his ex. He knows of her, of course. The papers in France didn’t print stories about the British Saviour very often, but they took a fleeting interest in his most recent relationship because the girlfriend had been a Beauxbatons graduate. He doesn’t know anything more. He’ll ask Blaise to have a sniff around, perhaps. He won’t ask as many questions as Pansy would.

*

Right. Sighing a little, Harry offers up, "So what did you get up to? Did you, er ... did you go home at all?"

*

“Yes,” says Draco. He adjusts his sleeve. “I did.”

*

Harry regrets asking suddenly; he hates the way he can see Malfoy touch his sleeve, and he hates the nearness to the subject of Lucius. The last time they'd been together, Malfoy had tried to slap him over his (admittedly a bit cruel) comment.

"That sounds nice," he says. "How's your mum?"

*

“Mother is fine,” Draco says. Sad is what he’d told Pansy. Lonely. “She’s taken to gardening.”

*

“Nice,” Harry says again. He tries not to picture Narcissa wandering endlessly, aimlessly around that huge, depressing manor with only Lucius Malfoy for company. It makes him feel rather sick. “I was never really a fan of gardening myself. Couldn't get into plants and Herbology.” But perhaps that’s because Aunt Petunia forced him to do their gardening in the beating sun for hours at a time. Who knows.

Rose starts wiggling again and making those little noises in his ear that he knows means she’s about to start screaming if she doesn’t get what she needs, so Harry stands with her and tries to keep her placated by stroking her hair.

“I think maybe she’s tired, I’m gonna try to put her down. Did you feed her?”

*

“About an hour ago,” Draco says. The whole thing feels grotesquely domestic, like they're actually friends, and it makes his stomach go all sour.

*

"Alright," Harry says. "Probably not hungry then. I'll be right back."

It takes about fifteen minutes, but Rose finally falls asleep in her crib upstairs and when Harry returns to the kitchen, Malfoy's not there anymore. He finds him instead in the living room with a book, looking uncomfortably soft.

"D'you not know how to turn the telly on or are you really as nerdy as Hermione?" Harry says, sitting down in an armchair and gesturing at the book he's holding.

*

Draco sniffs. He’d found the book on the coffee table, Granger’s no doubt, and it’s the same issue of Muggle Methods for Treating Magical Maladies he’s been meaning to order for weeks. He says, “I know how to work a television set.”

*

“Of course,” says Harry, grinning. “Your Muggle friends showed you, I guess?”

*

Draco wants to say that he hasn’t _got_ any Muggle friends, but he knows Potter will probably get all self righteous about it, even though the reason is purely that his only friends are Pansy and Blaise. “Something like that,” he says, and flicks a page.

*

“Right,” says Harry. Apparently Malfoy is incredibly frustrating even when it’s not a battle of wills between them. It's like he wants it to be awkward, and if so, he's doing a fantastic job. Harry had explicitly offered to stay with him the whole time, but he's suddenly all too willing to dip out early now that Rose is asleep as long as it means an end to this torture. “Well it’s almost five ... is there anything else you need help with? I might actually go see Ron if you think you can handle the last hour here.”

*

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Draco says, even though he’s really very much not. He clears his throat. “Thank you. I suppose.”

*

“No problem,” Harry says, a little surprised. He gets up again from the chair, nearly says something else to the effect of _hey, I’m sorry for what I said a few weeks ago_ , but doesn’t. He just says, “Guess I’ll see you round, then,” and gathers up his coat before stepping back into the Floo.

* * *

“That’s it,” Pansy says, moving her hand reverently along the artful curve of the boy’s arse who she’s buried in. Well, the _strap_ is buried in. Same thing, though. Right now, it’s very much a part of her. “Good boy. Isn’t he a good boy, Blaise?”

“Perfect,” Blaise groans. His head is tipped back, eyes closed. The same boy Pansy’s fucking has his mouth on Blaise, lips stretched wide and pretty.

When the door opens to the private room they’re currently inhabiting along with multiple other people — she doesn’t know how many, she can hear them making sounds though — Blaise doesn’t even bother opening his eyes when he says, “Get out.”

*

"Right,” Draco snickers. He drops himself down on one of the only surfaces that hasn’t been soiled by fornication, and snaps his fingers. “If you’re not a close and personal friend of mine, kindly fuck off.”

*

Draco. She should have known. Pansy grins as most people around them start reluctantly obeying the instruction, gathering up their clothing and leaving the room with glares at him and confused looks at Blaise. For his part, Blaise is still fucking the mouth of the boy between them, and only when he finally groans and shudders and Pansy can feel their shared conquest clenching as Blaise comes in his mouth does he finally deign to open his eyes.

“Go, then,” he tells the boy as he tucks himself away in his tight trousers. “Draco, you owe me.”

When the boy is gone (“good job, darling,” Pansy makes sure to tell him) and an oil lamp is turned on, she takes the strap off and tosses it aside, then pulls her knickers on.

“You didn’t want to join?” Pansy asks Draco, taking a cigarette from Blaise.

*

"I prefer not to partake in such deviant behaviour," Draco says primly.

Blaise snickers.

*

“Then was there something you needed?” Pansy asks, keeping her voice light

*

“I’m sorry, I rather thought my presence had been requested — nay, demanded, at six oh five on the dot,” Draco says, Summoning a cigarette from Blaise’s pack. “It’s not my fault you two are incapable of keeping your _appointments_ straight.”

“You’re being theatrical again,” Blaise says. He picks up what looks to be a rather expensive silk top that’s been flung over one of the couches (if it’s Pansy’s, Blaise is about to get the flaying of a lifetime) and lazily towels at the spunk on his stomach. “You only do it when you’re tetchy, Draco. Pansy, shall we put him down for a nap?”

*

"Oh, I don't think that's necessary," Pansy says. She pulls on her skirt, tucks her blouse into it, and goes to sit beside Draco, where she takes his chin and places a kiss on his cheek. "I forgot I'd asked you to come. We were only going to try and bribe you into joining our little orgy. I suppose we could do dinner instead?"

*

"Very well," Draco says. "I couldn't have done six, anyway. I was otherwise occupied."

Blaise, who is holding up a sheer black shirt in one hand and a pinstriped suit jacket in the other (where the fuck he produced them from is anyone's guess), snorts. "Doing what? If you're not with us, you're working, and today was your day off." He sets down the shirt, and slips the jacket over his bare chest, and smirks. "Unless, did you find another fascinating tome of Revised Brewing Techniques that you just couldn't put down, like the other night?"

Draco scowls. " _No_ , you fucking twerp." He tosses his head. "I was child-minding."

*

" _Child_ -minding?" Pansy echoes, completely taken aback. She lets out a surprised laugh, which snowballs into something loud and ringing and gets a chuckle out of Blaise before finally tapering off. "Oh, don't be silly, Draco, you've no affinity for children. Come," she ushers them both towards the door, "you can tell us who you were shagging on the way out. I'm thinking seafood, what about you, Blaise?"

*

Let the pair of them believe what they want, he’ll tell them at dinner and have them both choking on their chardonnay.

Blaise waves his hand. “As long as we don’t go to Maison,” he says. “Their oysters are a fucking disgrace.”

“You only say that because you’re still shitty that waiter turned you down.” Draco pats Blaise placatingly on one of his elegant shoulders as they descend the stairs to Venus’ main floor. “You never did handle a bruised ego very well,” he says.

*

“That waiter is clearly a troglodyte,” Blaise drawls. “And it has nothing to do with their fucking disgraceful oysters. Let’s go to The Rooftop, I need fresh air.”

“Oh, a _Muggle_ restaurant, really, Blaise?” Pansy says, frowning a bit as they reach the ground floor and the club’s blacklights turn the white leather of Pansy’s skirt into something blueish and glowing. “Well, I suppose they do have good sushi. By the way,” she says, taking a glowing drink in a skinny glass from a girl carrying a tray whose skin has been painted a shimmery blue that reacts to the blacklights, “how’s this new Roserum selling? Draco,” she hands him the drink, “you _must_ taste it, it’s phenomenal. Blaise was kind enough to let me do the trial run here.”

*

Draco sips the Roserum, relishing in the wash of syrupy warmth and rose water, the sharp tang of liquor. "Splendid, Pans."

"I should hope so," says Blaise. He walks in front of Pansy and Draco like he wishes he had a cape for them to hold, parting the crowds with little flicks of his wrist. "The fact that you're a stellar fuck and one of my nearest and dearest shan't help you in the slightest if you stock my bars with shitty spirits, my dear."

*

“He does love his empty threats,” Pansy says to Draco as Blaise pulls ahead of them towards the entrance. “I could give him Hippogriff piss to sell, run him out of business, and he’d still demand I fuck him. He’s worse than you sometimes, Draco.”

They find Blaise already at the designated Apparition point outside the club and together turn on the spot, disappearing and reappearing about a block down from the restaurant Blaise had suggested.

“It’s freezing cold,” Pansy complains as they start walking, the building already in sight. “I can’t believe you’re making us walk when we could have Apparated directly outside Maison.”

*

“Don’t gripe," says Blaise. "It’ll give you wrinkles.”

*

“Don’t make me spank you, Blaise.”

*

“I’ll snap your strap in half, you wretch.”

*

“Oh really?” Pansy coos, taking Blaise’s arm. “And then, pray tell, what would you do when you’re in a strop and want me to dom you a bit, hm?”

*

Blaise snorts. “Are you forgetting about our dear friend Draco, and his actual, literal, sizable cock?”

*

Again, Pansy laughs. And again, she lets it build until it’s echoing in the chilly night air and people are looking. She slings an arm around Draco’s waist and plants a kiss on his cheek.

“Our little Draco doesn’t have it in him, do you, darling?” She laughs again when he wriggles away from her and pinches his arm for good measure. “He told me Potter got a bit dommy on him,” she says, grinning wickedly.

*

“Shut the fuck up,” Draco advises.

“You mustn’t keep these things from me, Draco,” says Blaise. He sandwiches himself on Pansy’s other side (Draco would be surprised at the sudden peace-making, if they didn’t bicker this way literally all the fucking time) and starts rubbing her arm in an attempt to warm it up. “I find it very upsetting.”

*

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Pansy says, leaning into Blaise even as she continues grinning at Draco. “Go on, Draco, it’s been _ages_ since that whole affair. Tell Blaise, won’t you? It’s absolutely delicious.”

*

“I’ll raise you something better,” Draco says. Pansy may find the whole thing utterly hilarious by now (not that she ever _didn’t_ ), but he still gets all twisty every time he thinks about (and pulls off to) the memory of Potter’s warm, angular weight pressing him into the wall of the lift.

*

“What’s better than that?” says Blaise, but they finally come to the restaurant and Pansy opens the door to let them both through ahead of her. They take a lift up to the seventh floor and when the host tries to tell them there are no tables, Blaise slips him a few notes and soon they’re sat outside at a table overlooking the city, with heaters around them to keep the area warm.

“Alright,” Pansy allows once they’re settled and basking in the glow of the fairy lights and the view, “this was a fantastic idea.”

*

"Naturally," Blaise drawls. "Now, Draco. Spill it. And if we don't deem it significantly more titillating than Potter making you beg for it in a lift, you're getting a time out."

Draco's opening his mouth to protest when a waitress approaches. Two single malt whiskeys, a gin and tonic, two of the Otoro and a Katsuo, hold the daikon, please leave, thank you, and Blaise turns his attention back to Draco.

"Well?"

Draco shrugs. "Granger called over this afternoon."

*

“Wait, you were watching _Weasley_ spawn today?” Pansy scoffs. “Draco, _why_?”

*

Draco says, "Because I'm actually a very altruistic and lovely person."

"Boring!" Blaise opines. "Draco, go sit in the corner."

*

“Or,” Pansy adds, “you can tell Blaise about Potter. Honestly ... I’m surprised with you.”

*

Draco frowns. "Why?"

*

“You didn’t really think we’d care more about Granger’s child than your half-finished tryst, did you?”

"Do you know us at all, pet?"

"Shut up, Blaise," Draco snaps. "And my _tryst_ isn't the only thing that's half-finished. I'm not an idiot, there's more to the fucking story."

*

“Oh?” Pansy says, perking up. “More than you told me even?”

*

Draco glares at her. "Not that story," he says. Blaise collapses over the table with a groan.

*

Pansy pats Blaise’s head. “Then tell us the rest of this story and follow it with the Potter story. Look at poor Blaise, he’s perishing.”

*

"If you'd ever let me fucking finish—"

"A quote from you in the lift, I assume."

"If you'd let me _finish a fucking sentence_ , you'd find out that this story _is_ a Potter story. He Floo-ed over to see Granger."

*

“Did you fuck?” Blaise says immediately.

“Of course not,” says Pansy, “look at him, does he look like he shagged Potter an hour ago?”

*

Draco preens. Blaise rolls his eyes.

"Fine," he says. "Get on with it, then."

"The child was quite the recalcitrant, and Potter was able to calm her for me. He asked me how my holidays were, it was magnificently awkward, and then he left," says Draco.

*

There’s a moment of silence that draws out, both Pansy and Blaise waiting for more, until Blaise says, “ _That’s_ the story?”

*

Draco takes up his gin and tonic the minute it's set on the table and takes a long, pensive sip. He says, "Yes."

*

“Then we want the other one,” says Blaise. “Where you’re begging for cock in a stalled lift.”

*

"That's not what fucking happened," Draco hisses.

"That's what Pans told me," Blaise says, and slings an arm around her. Draco takes a moment to loathe them both entirely before he speaks again.

"I do not wish to discuss it," he says, stiffly. "Move on."

*

“No,” Blaise says defiantly. “We won’t. I can’t believe you’ve told Pansy and not me. Are we even friends, Draco? Potter makes you _beg_ and you withhold the details? It’s cruel.”

*

"Come off it," Draco snipes. "As if Pansy hasn't already repeated everything she knows. You're complete fucking twits, the pair of you."

*

Pansy frowns. She does get it, why Draco’s embarrassed — if _she’d_ spent seven years loudly loathing someone and then tried to shag them five years later only to get essentially rejected halfway through the fuck, she thinks she too would probably have spent a week or two utterly mortified. 

A week or two. Not a month. 

“Of course she did,” says Blaise. “But I want the details from the Hippogriff’s mouth and I've waited long enough, frankly. Tell me, was he actually good at it?”

*

“Yes,” Draco says, voice low and fingers clutching at the pristine tablecloth. “He was. He got me so hard I couldn’t think straight. He made me ask for what I wanted, wouldn’t even let me fucking move without admitting first I was gagging for him. He turned me against the wall and rimmed me, and fucked me with his fingers, and he tugged on my belly ring and called me a ponce cause I was wearing those black silk pants, the ones you love so much, Blaise, sweetheart. I got one thrust of his cock inside me, and then the lift started again, and he was Harry Potter again, and he went off knowing I was so terribly desperate for it that I begged for him to finish fucking me in a fully functioning lift, in my place of work. And so do you.” Draco raises his glass and clinks it hard against each of their tumblers, eyes smarting but not bothering to try and blink it away. “Chin-chin, do with that what you fucking will. Tossers. I’m leaving.”

*

Blaise looks as astonished as Pansy feels, which is quite out of the norm seeing as Blaise doesn't usually show feelings other than maybe contempt and satiation. She watches Draco go with a terrible weight in her chest and a cloying guilt clogging her throat. She looks at Blaise once Draco's out of sight, meeting his dark eyes. "I think he was crying," she says quietly. "I didn't mean— surely he knows we weren't ..." Taking the piss? Yeah, actually, they had been. But, Merlin, for him to have been reduced to _tears_ over it? "What d'you reckon?"

*

Blaise doesn’t like it when Pansy looks troubled. If Draco’s upset, it’s kind of whatever, he’s always been outrageously sensitive. But Pansy’s like him. Unflappable, and if she’s concerned, he probably should be, too. “Not sure,” Blaise says. He knocks back the rest of his drink. “He’s a flighty little thing, isn’t he?”

*

"Yes," Pansy agrees, "but not to this extent usually. I mean, a couple weeks ago he was a bit broken up about it — that night I took him home and gave him a bath, you remember — but I thought he'd gotten over it by now. He hasn't said a word." She sighs, tracing a finger round the lip of her tumbler. "I could just _kill_ Potter, you know. What kind of lunatic behaves that way?"

*

Blaise doesn’t think it would be helpful to point out that Pansy _did_ try and kill Potter, once. Inadvertently. 

“A self righteous prick of a one, Pans. Probably thinks he can fuck Draco around how ever he wants cause he’s king of the fucking Wizarding world.”

* 

“Sounds like Potter,” Pansy says grimly. “What a prick. I don’t think it helps Draco’s been hanging round Granger outside of work. That’s the only reason he saw Potter today and I’m sure that’s why he’s all worked up about it again.” She pauses, then says, a little hesitantly, “Maybe we should tell Granger to, you know ... back off a bit.”

* 

“Please, Pansy,” says Blaise. He clicks at a nearby waiter and waves his empty glass around. “Granger’s an obdurate fucking pain in the arse, do you really think she’ll listen to you?”

* 

Pansy shrugs and finally plucks up a piece of maki, but she doesn’t put it in her mouth. “Maybe,” she says. “She clearly likes Draco. Besides,” she grins a bit now, “I’d kind of like to get a look at her in person these days.”

*

"Oh? Looking to do a bit of home wrecking, Pans? You always did like the virtuous ones."

*

“Not _homewrecking_ ,” Pansy insists, though she’s still smirking. “Just looking.” She sticks the sushi in her mouth finally, chews, swallows, and then knocks back the rest of her drink. “I’m gonna do it,” she says. “I can’t watch Draco pine over Potter or whatever he’s doing, it’s unhealthy and more importantly, he’s no fun when he’s doing it.” She picks up another maki and holds it up to Blaise’s mouth. “Now open up, pet. We did come here to eat, did we not?”


	9. The Standoff

When they start going at it like this, they're actually worse than Rose at her shrillest. And Rose can be quite shrill, with the impressive lung capacity of an Olympic swimmer. And it's worse than it was at Hogwarts, because they're married now so they're comfortable with one another and don't really hold back.

Ron looks absolutely deranged, raving about leaving their child in the hands of a Malfoy, and betrayal, and shame on their house, and all sorts of other really excessively dramatic accusations that just barely make sense. Hermione's hardly any better; her hair's gone all especially frizzy like it does when she's worked up and verbally sparring someone.

Harry's holding Rose, because he doesn't think those two lunatics can be trusted at the moment. He thinks they might actually have forgotten he's here, sitting at the kitchen bench, holding their child, who seems somehow to realise the utter inanity of the argument because it isn't upsetting her. She's contentedly playing with her little stuffed elephant, actually, and paying them no mind.

"An outrage," Ron says for the sixteenth time. "An outrage! Our daughter's been tainted, Hermione!"

*

"Oh, shut up, Ronald!" Hermione says, blood warm under her cheeks. 

"I can't believe you left her with him," Ron says hotly. "Just to try and convince us he's changed—"

"He _has_ changed. Just because you still have the same emotional capacity you did at sixteen—"

"The lengths you'll go to to be able to say you're right, Merlin—"

"Enough," Hermione snaps, feeling frustratingly close to tears. She and Ron haven't fought this way since before she got pregnant. " _Enough_ , Ron. I would never put Rose in harm’s way, ever. Do you really think I would risk her wellbeing just to prove a point?"

*

Ron finally takes a pause at that and Harry’s relieved to see it. He can tell Hermione’s becoming genuinely upset and he really dislikes having to step in and talk Ron down. 

“I just think it was a bad idea, alright?” Ron says testily. “I know you wouldn’t risk her wellbeing, Hermione, but it’s _Malfoy_ , and beyond him being a prat we don’t _really_ know him. Heidi could’ve just handled the store herself yesterday, you should’ve told me Malfoy was the only person you could find.”

“I mean, it’s not like he was indoctrinating her into the Death Eaters or anything, Ron,” Harry says finally. They both look at him in such a way that he’s absolutely sure now they’d forgotten about him. “If it makes you feel any better, she was screaming until I got here and took her.”

*

Wait, _what_? "What do you mean, ' _until you got here'_?" Hermione says, sounding more aggressive than she really meant to because she's still keyed up at Ron. "Did you come over yesterday, Harry?"

"Betrayal!" Ron exclaims. "Harry, what the fuck? You saw the ferret here and you didn't even tell me?"

*

Harry rolls his eyes. Everyone he knows is so fucking dramatic. 

“I was gonna tell you, Ron, but I didn’t want to get involved in _this_ ,” he indicates the two of them with a free hand. “And yeah, I was here,” he adds to Hermione. “I came to see you and found him with Rose, screaming her head off. So I calmed her a bit and put her down for a nap and left. I thought he would’ve told you, to be honest.”

*

Mental note; debrief with Harry about what emotions seeing Draco again brought up for him, et cetera. She’ll do it later. Right now, she’s busy being completely narked off. 

“Well, he didn’t. He was in rather a rush when I got back, anyway.”

“Probably jaunting off to Skeeter’s office to give her our address, or something.”

“Shut _up_ , Ron.”

*

“Seriously, you’ve made your point,” says Harry. And when Ron gives him a murderous look, “She’s clearly fine, isn’t she? Malfoy’s had plenty of chances to be a prick since he’s been back and he hasn’t. Just leave it alone.”

“I knew it,” Ron says, “you’re still hung up on him, aren’t you? Harry, it’s been weeks.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Harry says defensively. His twitchy little movement causes Rose to drop her elephant and he picks it up for her before she can start crying. “And, you know, even if it did, you can shut up about it because it’s clearly out of my control how I _feel_. Not like I’ve gone to see him again. Believe me, finding him here was _not_ a pleasant experience.”

*

Ron shudders. “Surprised by a Malfoy. A fate worse than death.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, but as she watches Harry tuck Rose’s little plush elephant back into her chest, she’s hit with a wave of sudden guilt. Sometimes it feels like literal months since they all left school, since she and Ron got married by the little inlet on her parents property in Australia, with George as his best man, and Harry as her maid of honour. Sometimes, it feels like it's just her and him, yelling at each other across the common room, and she forgets that though they're still young, they're also kind of not. 

Hermione says, “C’mere,” beckoning Harry to stand so she can take Rose in her arms. “Sorry for yelling in front of you, darling. You too, Harry.”

*

Harry stands and lets Hermione take Rose from him, rolling his eyes a bit when she apologises to him the same way as her infant daughter.

"Whatever, just shut up about Malfoy, alright? The both of you. I'm so bloody sick of the whole thing."

*

"Here, here," says Ron.

"Alright," says Hermione. "But he's still my friend. I'm not making any promises about him never being around here again, or whatever."

*

"Great," Harry says sarcastically, "have fun with him. Just make sure you let me know so I can find something else to do that night."

*

Hermione says, "Noted."

Ron grabs Harry by the elbow. "If you don't take me with you, I'll literally kill you."

*

"Right." Harry pulls his arm back from Ron, more aggressively than he'd meant. And to Hermione: "Just try not to make it a habit."

*

Hermione frowns. She wants to say that it's _her home_ , and she'll invite over whomever she sees fit, but it doesn't quite ring true. The cottage is kind of Harry's place, too. "Does he really make you that uncomfortable?"

*

"Yes, Hermione," Harry says without missing a beat. "He makes me extremely uncomfortable. Not to be crude but if you half-shagged someone you used to hate in a lift and then got utterly rejected by him the next second you'd be uncomfortable too."

*

Hermione says "Okay," as placatingly as she can, somewhat surprised. She knew on some level, of course, that Harry was still mixed up about Draco. He's sensitive, even if he doesn't think he is, and the way he reacted to her trying to talk to him about it all those weeks ago was, in her opinion, entirely out of proportion. "Okay, Harry. I'll respect that. I don't want you to ever feel uncomfortable here, yeah?"

"You know what's uncomfortable," says Ron, "is this conversation."

*

He looks down, but he appreciates Hermione's sentiment. A lot. It makes him think of the Dursleys', and never once feeling comfortable or welcome there, or like his opinions or feelings were taken account. Because they hadn't been.

He also appreciates Ron's inability to take things seriously, and he laughs at his icebreaker.

"Yeah, for real," says Harry. "I've had enough. Thanks for your help with the Spattergroit stuff, Hermione." He takes the files off the table and stuffs them into an inside pocket of his coat. "And, er ... thanks. About the Malfoy thing." He pats Ron's back and starts heading into the living room towards the Floo. "I'll see you guys tomorrow for lunch, yeah?"

*

"Course, mate," Ron says. "Thinking I'll do a roast."

Harry says, "Brilliant," as he steps into the Floo.

Once the green flames simmer back to amber, Hermione sets Rose down on her play mat on the floor and turns to Ron. "Okay, number one; you're right. I shouldn't leave Rosie with someone who you don't completely trust, even if I do. It's not fair," she says. 

*

"I get there was no one else," Ron mutters. Merlin, he hates when Hermione gets all ... vulnerable. He _likes_ it, but also he hates it. "But yeah. At least let me know or something. Sorry for yelling at you."

*

"That's okay," Hermione says. "Sorry for calling you Ronald."

*

Ron snorts. “Yeah. Thanks.” A sigh, and he rubs the back of his neck. “So. What’re we gonna do?”

*

"Well. That brings us to number two."

*

“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Ron says reluctantly. “Harry. What’re we gonna do about him.”

*

Hermione sits back on their little, cushy couch and beckons Ron next to her. "I'm not sure. It's got to be something, though, right? I mean, I know he hates to be cosseted, but we've left it alone for weeks, and he only seems more mixed up."

*

Ron sits down next to her heavily, a little resentful Harry’s making them have to deal with his Malfoy obsession _again_ , well into their twenties, but mostly he’s just sad for him. Because yeah, mixed up is putting it a bit lightly.

“D’you ever think he sort of ... does a thing where he goes after relationships that can’t go anywhere? I dunno, it’s like ...” He shakes his head, sighs again. “Like he avoids stuff that might last. I don’t think he does it on purpose, but ... I mean, Charlie. Natalie was never going anywhere, she was insane. Now Malfoy. It’s weird.”

*

Hermione nods. She’s always thought Harry had a bit of a self-destructive streak. She could see it even in school, when he went after Cho, whose boyfriend had just died, and Ginny, who was his best friend’s sister. Harry doesn’t often think about protecting himself, and he never listens to Hermione when she tries to do it for him. “It’s a pattern,” she says. “But I don’t know, I don’t think we can talk him out of this.”

*

“Then we need to just not talk about it,” Ron says with a shrug. “You know? Don’t bring him round when Harry’s here or might show up, try to make sure they don’t run into each other at Mungo’s. Out of sight, out of mind, right? I mean, it’s Harry, he _will_ move on once he feels like the door’s closed on it.”

*

“Right. Right, we’ll do that,” says Hermione. She pushes the sleeves of her cardigan up to her elbows. Presses a palm to her forehead. “Although...”

*

“ _Although_ ...?”

*

“ _Although_ ,” Hermione says, “this feels different. With Ginny and Charlie, they were more friends than anything else, you know? When things ended, Harry wanted to preserve that. And with Natalie — I mean, you remember how he was. It was like he only started seeing how bad things actually were the second they ended. He _wanted_ to get back to normal. Pick himself up.”

*

“So ... what,” Ron says slowly, heart sinking. “You’re saying he doesn’t want to get back to normal?” He gestures towards the Floo, “He just told you not to invite Malfoy over. That sounds like trying to move on, right? He knows how stupid this is.”

*

"Yeah, I know. I'm not saying it's a conscious thing. I just don't think he's _over it_ enough to start getting over it, and I'm not sure he's trying to be. Do you know what I mean?"

*

Ron pinches the bridge of his nose. Grimaces. Fucking Harry. _Fucking_ Harry.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Tragically I do. I still think the out of sight, out of mind thing is the best way to go, though. Could always slip him a love potion, distract him while we think of a way to kill Malfoy off without anyone noticing.”

*

“Oh?” says Hermione. “And who would we sic him on instead?”

*

“I dunno, one of those crazy bints who’re always bothering us when we go out with him,” Ron says, waving his hand as if it’s an obviously inconsequential detail. “We can kill her too when we’re finished.”

*

Hermione grins. “ _We_? As if you’d have the stomach for it, love. You do the dosing, I’ll get my hands dirty.”

*

Ron grins, more than a little turned on when feral Hermione makes an appearance.

"You've got yourself a deal, Mrs Granger."

* * *

> _Granger,_
> 
> _I wish to speak with you regarding our mutual friend. You know the one. Blond, petulant, bit of a cunt? I'm afraid it's rather urgent._
> 
> _However, I simply refuse to enter your place of work, as it positively reeks of antiseptic and my nose is very sensitive. Ergo, I insist you come to me for our little tete-a-tete. Two o'clock today works, yes? We're on floor twenty-two. My assistant will greet you at reception. Please don't be tardy. I have other appointments I need to keep.  
> _
> 
> _Looking forward to it with immense enthusiasm. Sincerely,_
> 
> _Ms Pansy M. Parkinson_
> 
> _P.s. please don't be intimidated by my enormous success and stunning good looks, Granger. I'm actually an exceptionally lovely person._
> 
> _P.p.s. be a pet and don't mention this to Draco. Ta._

*

She almost hadn't gone. First reading the letter had left Hermione absolutely incandescent with indignation and anger, but then she'd remembered she was an adult with a husband and a child and a career and Pansy Parkinson deserved to have zero ability to affect her emotional state these days when she was as happy as she'd ever been and fiercely proud of her life.

Someone else certainly might have been intimidated walking into the enormous office building in the heart of London where Pansy's business is located, up on one of the highest floors. Lavishly (but tastefully, admittedly) decorated and with the sort of bluntly attractive girl at reception who is probably intended to make visitors feel insecure about themselves, the whole thing feels very foreign to Hermione, but not intimidating.

"Hello," she says to the receptionist, "Hermione Granger, Pansy should be expecting me."

*

“Healer Granger?”

*

“That’s right,” Hermione says, trying not to sound snappish. It’s possible Pansy _told_ her to be deliberately dim just to annoy her, and that’s not this poor girl’s fault. “Is she in her office? She sent me an owl.”

*

“Yes, please, right this way. You can take a seat in the waiting area. Ms Parkinson’s just finishing up with a client.”

*

“Right,” says Hermione. Annoyed and keeping it to herself. “Thank you.” And goes to sit down on one of the outrageously luxurious sofas.

*

Dominique pokes her head into Pansy’s office, where she’s sitting with her ankles crossed atop the desk and a nail file in hand.

“Ms Parkinson? Hermione Granger is here for you.”

Pansy smiles. Rounds off the curve of her ring finger, a jot. “Excellent, pet. Send her through in a few minutes, yes?”

Dominique nods, shuts the door with a soft click. It’s childish, perhaps, making Granger wait. But Pansy’s always been a touch the antagonist. She simply can’t resist.

*

Hermione watches suspiciously as the receptionist goes into Pansy’s office and then comes back out, and suddenly she can’t help wondering if there’s not actually anyone in there. Not that she’ll know for sure, assuming there’s a Floo. 

“Will it be much longer?” she asks after a few minutes, keeping her voice light. “I only set aside an hour today to meet with her.”

*

Dominique gives Hermione a tight little smile and says, "You can go through now. Please knock, first."

*

Sighing a little but saying nothing, Hermione goes to the door to Pansy's office and knocks.

*

Granger's knock is neat and sensible, like those ghastly shoes she was wearing last time Pansy saw her at the pub. The _pub_. Ugh, the things she does for Draco. 

Pansy rises from her desk and goes to stand behind one of the leather bergères by her fireplace. It's where she relocates when she has appointments with clients or business partners who are more friends than associates, or when she thinks it might be politic to flirt a little to tip an agreement her way. She says, "Come in."

*

Hermione opens the door and shuts it behind her when she's inside, reluctantly impressed by the figure Pansy strikes in front of the fireplace. She is chic in a way Hermione doesn't think she could ever quite achieve, even if she had the desire to.

"Pansy," she says. "It's nice to see you. I received your letter, obviously. Can I assume this is about Draco and Harry?"

*

“Buy me a drink first, Granger,” Pansy says, smoothly. She gestures to the chair opposite. “Have a seat.”

*

Hermione stays still a moment, then decides to oblige Pansy. She takes a seat across from her, setting her bag on her lap and lifting an eyebrow.

*

“Cognac?” Pansy offers, reaching for the crystal stopper in her favourite XO. Granger looks kind of uptight and vaguely annoyed, the way she always used to in school. “It’s imported, of course. Britain has its charms but the liquor, _c'est_ _inférieur_ , is it not?”

*

“I don’t usually drink cognac,” Hermione says, although she accepts the glass she’s handed. She cradles it in her hand, not tasting it yet. “I’ll have to take your word for it, I suppose.”

*

“Do, pet,” says Pansy.

*

Hermione blinks at her, not sure she's just heard correctly. But of course she has. This shouldn't be surprising, really. "I'd prefer it if you just called me Hermione," she says.

*

"Of course," says Pansy, without missing a beat. "It's a boorish habit, isn't it? This last name nonsense."

*

“Yes,” says Hermione, deciding to forego explaining she’d meant _pet_ , mostly because she thinks Pansy knows that. And because she realises they’re clearly not going to get right to it, she adds, gesturing around the office, “You’ve done well for yourself. I feel like I see your spirits at every pub and grocery I’ve been to in the last five years.”

*

Waving her hand idly, Pansy says, “You’re too kind. Certainly I haven’t given my time to anything as noble as Healing.”

*

Hermione nods politely, accepting the compliment, ironic as it probably is in nature. “Thank you,” she says. “It’s very fulfilling. I think Draco feels the same way.”

*

A lovely segue. Pansy wonders if it was purposeful. Only, she’s never imagined Granger to be skilled in the art of delicate conversation — she’s always been so incredibly blunt.

“Yes, Draco. You were good to take him under your wing as you did.”

*

Hermione frowns. Something about the phrasing doesn't sit right with her, and her dislike for Pansy heightens.

"I'm not sure what you mean, under my wing," she says curtly. "He's very capable. Surely you know that."

*

“I know Draco very well,” says Pansy. It’s a sharp turn away from any kind of subtly. “Of course, he’s gifted at what he does. He’s always been the smartest of us all.”

*

She thinks that little comment is meant to include her as well, and if so, Hermione lets it pass without acknowledgment. She’s better than rising to Pansy Parkinson’s bait.

“I’m sure he’d be flattered to hear you say that,” says Hermione. “Now, do you think you could elucidate the reason you invited me here? As much as I’m enjoying this reunion, I really do have a full schedule today.”

*

Pansy raises an eyebrow. "As do we all, Healer Granger." She takes a sip of her cognac. "The reason I asked for you is really very lucid indeed. I would like for you to leave Draco be, outside of work."

*

"Excuse me?" Hermione says, startled. She sits up even straighter, indignation simmering low in her belly. "What exactly does that mean, _leave Draco be_? Are you his keeper?"

*

Pansy snorts. "Don't be gauche, Granger. I'm simply requesting that you, as I said, leave him be. Draco's quite delicate at the moment, and it's really only due to your intervention."

*

"And what does _that_ mean?" Hermione asks hotly. "Draco is not _delicate_ , and if he is it's because of the frankly inappropriate way —" But she cuts herself off, because it isn't worth it to get worked up and start yelling about how unhealthy she thinks his relationship with Pansy and Blaise is based on the things she's seen and heard. She takes a breath. Moves some hair out of her face. "Is this about Harry?" she asks again. "What's Draco said?"

*

"Draco's said many things that have made me rather concerned and, frankly, aggrieved, about his little tiff with Potter," says Pansy. Granger's starting to get these pink spots on her cheeks, and she's sitting stiff and far forward in her chair. Pansy leans back. "And I'll remind you, Granger, that I know Draco far better than you should ever hope to. Really, I take no pleasure in it, he's a complete terror, but I know what's good for him, and what's not. Potter is not. You, by extension, are also not."

*

"Draco and I are very good friends," Hermione says with too much resentment, which she then tries to tone back. "And Harry and I are not attached at the hip. I'm also worried about what happened between them — maybe it would be good for us to talk about it — but you can't possibly expect me to stop being friends with him because of it. That's ridiculous."

*

There's an indecently immature part of Pansy that revels in Granger's annoyance. Wants to keep pushing until she storms out of the office in a huff. But. Alas. She meant to do this for Draco, not herself. "Listen, Hermione," she says. "The thing about Draco is that he can be very reticent, when he pleases. He _is_ fragile right now. I can assure you."

Pansy raps her nails against her snifter, picturing Draco's piqued, glassy-eyed face as he left The Rooftop two evenings ago. His Floo's been blocked since.

"He's fragile, and he's shaken, and every time he sees _your friend Potter_ , things seem to get worse."

*

"I think you're wrong that he's fragile," says Hermione, "but I can agree to disagree about it. However, I do think you're right that it's not very helpful for them to see one another, and that it would be beneficial if we both did our part to make sure they don't cross paths." She sighs and takes a very small sip of the cognac. It burns on the way down, not unpleasantly. "I realise how ... juvenile it sounds, keeping them apart like children. But they're rather juvenile around each other, and I don't like the way their relationship affects either of them. Maybe it's what they need. I absolutely will not agree to stop seeing Draco myself, though."

*

Pansy can't help it — she rolls her eyes. Fuck, if Granger isn't stubborn. She's starting to see what her and Draco might have in common.

She says, "Salazar. I only request you keep a slight distance where possible, until he sets himself right again. You may not believe he's delicate, fine, but know that as capable as he seems, Draco's never been good at taking care of himself. He lets things consume him, without intervention. I've seen it too many times. I won't see it again."

*

Any irritation on Hermione’s part is eclipsed by the surprise she feels at hearing Pansy say about Draco exactly what she would have said about Harry. Which is ... interesting.

“I realise you’re being protective because you care about him,” she says, in a much softer tone than she’s used thus far. “I feel the same about Harry. He’s been out of sorts about the whole thing as well and I was a little wary at first when he said he wanted me to go out of my way to warn him when I’ll be with Draco but I think he’s right, just trying to take care of himself. So while I won’t promise to keep a distance from Draco, because he’s my friend and I don’t think that’s fair to him, I _can_ promise to do my part to make sure they don’t have to interact.”

*

"Fine," Pansy sighs. "Excellent."

*

“Does Draco know about this?” Hermione asks. “That is ... has he said anything about Harry in terms of ... not wanting to see him anymore?”

*

"Draco won't discuss it." There's no point feigning niceties, now. Granger's not going to acquiesce anymore than she already has. Pansy drains her glass, and continues, "He did, however, make clear his intention to let it go no further."

*

"Good," Hermione says with a nod. "Good, I think it's healthy they both want to move on from it." Even though something about the entire situation still feels very silly and childish. "I'm glad Draco has someone looking out for him." She gestures to Pansy, mostly to be polite. "I don't think it'll be necessary for you and I to reconvene on this but of course, feel free to let me know if you need anything."

*

Pansy barely suppresses another eye roll. Granger is so fucking proper, it's incensing. She's lovely to look at, sure (with outrageously incredible skin), and she's got this whole virtuous, heart-of-gold thing going for her, but fuck she must be an utter bore in bed. Pansy can hardly bring herself to picture her and the Weasel, in all their heterosexual missionary glory. A tragedy, for both of them.

"Likewise."

*

Nodding again, Hermione sets the liquor aside (mostly untouched) and stands. "Great. Well, thank you for inviting me here to talk. It was nice seeing you, Pansy. I'm sure we'll see one another again at some point. Is your Floo connected to the hospital?"

*

Pansy stands with Granger, only to take a few paces and drop back into her desk chair. She Summons her cigarettes from the pocket of her coat across the room. "Floo powder gives me a headache," she says, lighting one and flicking a fluid wrist. "I haven't got one in here."

*

Hermione lifts an eyebrow. She nearly says something about the 'client' Pansy was supposed to have been with before her, and how she'd seen no one coming out, and how that's impossible if this fireplace isn't connected to the Floo Network, but she decides to let it go.

"Of course. Well, I'll see myself out, then."

"Have a nice day, Healer Granger," the receptionist says as she's leaving, and Hermione doesn't bother returning the sentiment.

* * *

The second Harry steps out of the Floo at half past one in the morning, Klaus comes padding into the living room with pink-rimmed eyes like he's just been sleeping and his fur ruffled on one side. He rubs against Harry's shins once, sits down next to where he's standing, and meows loudly.

"I know," Harry says tiredly, "I know, I know, I'm sorry, I didn't realise I'd be this late. Will you let me get my boots off, can I do that?"

Klaus meows again, probably meaning 'no,' and also to convey that he feels it's a shitty excuse. Following that he actually bites Harry's leg and then sprints away like a wild animal towards the kitchen. Harry's shout of "you little arsehole!" of course means nothing to him.

Once he's de-booted and de-coated, he goes to the kitchen where Klaus starts rubbing him again and Harry scoffs.

"You know, t's not very politic to go around biting people you want things from," he tells Klaus, who is chirping now as Harry fills his bowl with kibble and replaces the water. He still pets his head before he leaves, though, because even when he's annoyed he's always found the little crunching sounds very cute.

In his room, he chucks off his clothes down to his pants then goes to start the shower, making sure it's as hot as it can go before finally taking those off too and getting in. He needs to fucking relax, is the thing. Every muscle in his body feels sore, like he'd just spent the last week backpacking through Austria. In reality it's probably because he's been pushing himself way too hard in routine training just because it's difficult to ruminate when he's exhausted. It's a technique he'd applied at school when he'd been overwhelmed, burning himself out at Quidditch practice just so he could get to sleep.

It isn't _just_ Malfoy, but it's mostly him. There've been rumours of something going on in northern England near Manchester that he and Terry and a small team of Aurors have been investigating and it's been more and more time-consuming by the day, yet Malfoy still manages to be the number one thing causing Harry the most stress. Perhaps that's because his whole childhood had gotten him used to the stress of Dark Magic and dangerous situations and being hunted by lunatics, whereas he's never really dealt before with any sort of complicated relationship between himself and someone who was once his enemy, for lack of a less melodramatic word, and whom he now is having ... whatever. Feelings?

And technically it's not _actually_ complicated, because he's made it very clear he wants to move on from this and never see Malfoy again if possible, which is fairly straightforward. Only as he'd told Charlie, he literally cannot stop thinking about him. And it's driving him a bit fucking mad.

He leans into the hot spray and tries to focus on relaxing his muscles instead of the inevitable hardening of his cock which happens literally every time he steps into the shower or climbs into bed to try and will his mind to shut down for a few hours. Getting off with Charlie had helped for maybe two days. Then it was back to being sexually frustrated over Malfoy and the lack of sex he's had lately. Which is completely his own doing.

Sometimes Harry manages to get a fucking grip and will his erection away (mostly) and then pull off later while thinking about anything but Malfoy. Because he does want this to go away, and he knows it will with time, but it's really bloody bothersome at the moment.

Other times (today is one of those times) he capitulates to the urge, knowing it's pointless to punish himself when he can't help it. And those times (today, now) he takes himself in hand and presses his face against his arm and pretends it's Malfoy's arse he's sliding into instead of his fist, and he remembers the way Malfoy sounded when he said 'please', and he fucks his hand the way he would've fucked Malfoy if he hadn't been such a cowardly prat in that lift, and he comes with a groan and imagines he's buried inside Malfoy, trapped against the wall, and for a blissful few moments he doesn't care about anything.

Muscles relaxed and nerves still tingling, he shampoos. He soaps. He stands under the water until his skin starts pruning (and his anxieties are back) and then goes to the bedroom to find Klaus curled up contentedly on the bed waiting for him.

"You'd be completely horrified to know how obvious you are," Harry tells him as he pulls a pair of pants on to sleep in. "You've missed me lately. I can tell."

Klaus chirps sleepily as Harry climbs into bed and peers at him through slitted eyes, as if to say, _turn the lights off and go to sleep, idiot_. _Obviously I missed you._

He puts out the lamps with his wand and sets it aside on his night table and says, to Klaus and to the darkness, "D'you think it's time I quit pratting around and try dating like a normal person?"

Klaus says nothing, probably because it's a stupid question. Harry flips onto his side, staring into the dark, and thinks that maybe next time they go to the pub and some bird tries talking to him he should give her a chance.

* * *

Fresh off of her rounds, Hermione's delighted to see Draco in the tearoom already when she goes to sit down for a quick lunch. She's been wanting to talk to him, gauge his emotional temperature, but she hasn't wanted to actually pull him aside and make him suspicious. So this is good.

"You've been here all night, haven't you?" she says knowingly as she sits down beside him with her salad. "Your coffee looks blacker than usual."

*

"At what point," says Draco, "is it more prudent to simply eat the grounds right out of the bag? I’ve always wondered.”

*

Hermione laughs. "Well, you could. They have plenty of antioxidants, lots of caffeine, obviously. But it wouldn't be easy to chew, and they're very acidic. Everything alright?"

*

Draco says, "Of course." He's not quite in the mood for Granger's particular brand of support and general niceness, this afternoon. He's been here since three PM yesterday.

*

Not the best response, but in all fairness Draco looks pretty similarly any time he has an overnight shift.

"Good," she says. "You know, I was just reading this fascinating article about the effects of a Stasis Charm on areas of swelling in —"

"Draco," comes a jovial voice from the door, and Hermione turns to see one of the Healers from (she thinks) Potion and Plant Poisoning come into the room. He's very handsome, which is about all Hermione knows about him other than what floor he works on. "Good to see you. Culpeppers's doing very well, I meant to let you know. And ... Granger, is it?"

"Indeed," Hermione smiles. "I'm so sorry, you are?"

"Armond," he says and shakes her hand with a strong grip. "Armond Blewitt, down on Potions and Plants. Draco referred a case to me just yesterday, been here most of the night running tests."

*

Draco's always thought, from their few previous interactions, that Blewitt was criminally friendly. To still be so after they've both been on for almost twenty-four hours is literally just offensive. "Did you need me, Healer Blewitt?"

*

"No, not at all," Blewitt laughs, and Hermione can't help smiling. The sound is a bit contagious. "I only came to make myself some tea. Don't mind me, I'll be out of your hair in a minute."

"Oh, please don't leave on account of us," Hermione says quickly.

"That's very kind," says Blewitt as he takes a mug out of the cabinet and fills it with steaming water from his wand, "but I really must be getting back down. I only came because you have all the good flavours up here."

"That's because Draco keeps us well-stocked," Hermione laughs. "You've never met a tea snob like him."

*

" _Draco_ is right here," Draco sniffs. "And he resents being called a snob, thanks, Granger."

Blewitt laughs again. Draco's going to throw his coffee cup at him.

*

"I'm a bit of a tea snob myself," Blewitt admits, with a smile that is clearly in no way _meant_ to be charming, but still is. Hermione's mostly interested in Draco's dislike, though. It's kind of cute. "You've good taste, Draco. Roqberry is one of my favourites."

*

“Roqberry’s fine,” says Draco. He vanishes the rest of his coffee, and elbows Granger as he does because she’s looking all smug around a mouthful of lettuce. “Their breakfast blend is terribly bitter.”

*

"I'm partial to Peppermint Cream," says Blewitt. "I like my tea a little sweeter than most people, I think." Hermione refrains from telling him Draco does too. "Anyway, I'd better be off. Good to meet you, Granger. Draco," he flashes him a grin and then leaves, and Hermione turns a raised eyebrow on him.

"He's quite handsome," she says. "Seems familiar too."

*

“Shut up,” Draco mutters. “He’s a fucking bore.”

*

“Oh, you’re being harsh,” says Hermione. She can’t tell if this has purely to do with not liking Blewitt or if he’s grumpy because of Harry still. Nor will she ask. “I think he’s lovely. Did he go to Hogwarts, do you know?”

*

“I imagine so,” Draco says. “Hufflepuff, no doubt.”

*

Hermione rolls her eyes. “That’s not a _bad_ thing, you know. And you can’t stereotype people like that. Maybe he’s a Slytherin!”

*

Draco snorts. “You really are very funny, Granger.”

*

“Shall we make it interesting?” Hermione smirks.

*

“Pardon?”

*

“A bet,” she says, rolling her eyes. Purebloods. _Really_. “A Galleon says he’s not a Hufflepuff.”

*

“Just give it to me now. Seriously.”

*

“No! Absolutely not. You have to find out for sure.”

*

“Me?” says Draco. “Why do I have to find out?”

*

“Because you already know him!”

*

“I do not.” Draco stands and levitates his mug over to the sink. “I don’t. You’re the ones who are horribly chatty, you ask him. And then polish off a Galleon.”

*

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But it’s _you_ who’ll be polishing off that Galleon.”

*

“Mm hm,” says Draco. “I’m off.” He’s not, really, for another twenty minutes at least. But it’s either stay, and fall asleep in the middle of an Epinsky, and literally disfigure someone, or knock off a bit early. “Back at seven tomorrow. I’ll keep my pockets empty.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find us on tumblr! [dracoladon](https://dracoladon.tumblr.com/) and [lazywonderlvnd](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) 😔✊


End file.
